Crash Into Me
by IzzieXDiyanah
Summary: They will pick at the carcasses like hyenas, pushing away their own humanity. Blood will run through the streets like rivers into the sea, and it was his fault. If only he hadn't loved so much, if only he'd stuck to the plan. If only she had never loved him for, of course, to love is to destroy and to be loved, is to in turn, be destroyed - but destruction had never been so sweet.
1. Prologue

**A/N: I've been wanting to write this for years now, but never really got to it. But now I have and the following text that you are about to read is the product of my rather active imagination. I hope you enjoy your read and please remember to review. And, I beseech you, be kind. (=

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Prologue

_Cheltenham, England_

_2008_

Being pulled into that darkness, that emptiness was like having all the air sucked out of her lungs. She swore that she could feel her heart swelling in her chest, simply expanding and expanding until she was sure that it'd rip open her skin and leave her bleeding to her death. Her legs felt weak, but still managed to hold her up. It was nothing short of a miracle. Except that she didn't want her legs to continue supporting her, keeping her standing upright. She wanted to fall to the ground in a heap of quivers and shakes because she didn't know what else to do.

Her body ached all over. She had already abandoned the idea of breathing through her nose and instead opened her mouth to swallow large portions of air―but she choked on it instead. No air would enter her lungs. She couldn't breathe and for the life of her, she wanted to scream for help, but it felt like there was something jammed in her throat and it was preventing her from making even the slightest of sounds. The beating of her heart was picking up pace. What was once a dull thudding in her ear had turned into a loud and relentless _thump thump thump_. In three seconds, she would be dead and she began to sob, afraid.

The sobs had not a chance to turn to tears, however, as she was thrust into yet another darkness. But it was a different darkness. It had light. _Real_ light. And it wasn't suffocating her. It was actually bordering on nice and warm…and panic-stricken as she watched a woman race past her, a black figure practically exuding fear hot on her heels.

This time, Alice didn't even try to scream, and when her chest began to hurt from the lack of oxygen within her lungs, she didn't panic, didn't feel like crying. Because she had stopped breathing by choice, watching in silence as the black figure―the shadow―got closer and closer to the woman. This is it, she thought, her eyes intent upon a gleaming piece of metal in the shadow's hand. It glowed in the moonlight like a priceless piece of jewellery, the type that went for millions at auctions. She knew, though, that there was nothing beautiful about what the shadow was holding, and in that moment, she knew.

She knew that the woman would fall. She knew that the figure would stand over her, light glinting off his weapon as he poised it just above her heart.

It was all rather like a horror movie, except she was in it and it was real. _This_ was real.

As she had predicted, the woman fell. One of her feet caught on something on the ground―Alice didn't know what―and she went tumbling to the ground, a desperate cry emitting from her, a plea for mercy. The shadow wasted no time and stood over her, eclipsing her, engulfing her in darkness. And through all of this, the girl sitting on the ground, only watched, holding her breath. She saw nothing but the unusual weapon as it descended upon the woman with such stunning force. She did nothing else but watch―until the blade came back up and she saw the dark liquid that kept it from reflecting the moon's light.

And just like that, the air rushed back into her lungs with a vengeance, pushing the walls of the organ to near breaking point. The pain seemed to grow within the confinements of her chest and it was quickly becoming unbearable, and with every heartbeat, the pain was getting worse. Finally, she dropped to the ground, her right hand clawing at her chest with a note of anxiety.

Her mind was making an attempt at concocting a plan to save her. Something brilliant that would be fitting of a girl aiming for Cambridge―but nothing would come. Or rather, many things came, but all at the same time at which point her head started to throb, synchronizing with the pounding of her heart.

Her mind never stopped thinking and her heart never stopped beating, and when she screamed, it was triggered by something else. Not by her mind transmitting some message upon seeing the shadow approach her. And it wasn't fear that should have entered her heart that made her cry out either. It was a message from something, someone that was so loud and so clear that it might as well have been spoken aloud. Only it hadn't been. There was no one about but her and the thing that was getting closer. And yet, there it was, in her thoughts, coming above everything else in her brain. _Scream!_ it said.

So she did and the air that had been causing her so much pain before slammed against her back, sending her flying towards the shadow with his weapon bathed in blood and it was all she could do not to scream until her throat burned, until her eyes shed tears. She made impact with the shadow and felt the blade dig into her flesh and she saw red. The beating of her heart grew mightier and mightier, and she couldn't seem to keep herself from gasping for air although there was nothing restricting her breathing. It was happening again. She couldn't see anything. Was this what people saw when they died? Was she already dead?

But then, from somewhere in that sea of red, Aleah's face came into view, concern and fright dancing across her features. Alice blinked away the tears that had welled up in her eyes, sweeping over her surroundings, seeing white rectangular tables with little jars filled with liquids of all sorts of colours on them. And everyone staring at her. "Babes, do you need to go to the nurse's office?" someone said, his voice strained from trying to contain his laughter.

She turned around towards the direction of the voice only to see the face of a boy whom she was certain looked familiar, her heart twisting and her stomach making awkward, uncomfortable flips as his whole person shook with laughter. She turned in her seat, a frown upon her brow, and directed her gaze to the front of the class where a petite woman with auburn curls in a pink blouse and white skirt was looking at her rather intently. Alice held her gaze for what seemed like forever before the woman walked towards her.

And panic filled every part of her body again. The shadow! It was coming towards her, the same blood-stained blade in his hand.

The scream that was ripped from her lips this time was louder and felt even more real than the one before. She pushed her chair back with speed that she hadn't known she possessed, the chair screeching in protest against the floor. She began to get up and make a run for it, but her foot caught against a backpack on the floor and she fell, rather like the woman she'd seen earlier. Images floated across her vision of how the woman had been stabbed and Rose felt hysteria setting in.

He was here._ He was here_. He'd come to kill her. But he had killed her. She had felt the knife slice through her skin and into her flesh. The pain had been there. She'd died. Immediately, her hand shot up to her chest, and came into contact with the familiar texture of a dampened shirt. She pulled her hand away and looked at it.

Blood.

Another scream was inevitable as she tried to get away from the shadow. He was so close now. She could feel fear's icy grasp around her heart. She had to…she had to…

"Alice! Alice, stop!" She felt hands descend upon her shoulders, accompanied by the voice of a girl shouting at her, and she saw Aleah. She tried to say her name, but nothing would come out. It was like her lips had been sewn shut. She couldn't speak. She then looked at her hands―which had absolutely no traces of anything even remotely red. Had she been imagining the whole thing? "I think you need to go see the nurse," Aleah said.

She looked up, beyond her best friend's shoulder and no longer saw the shadow, but the anxiety-ridden face of the same petite woman from the front of the class. She was saying something, but Alice wasn't sure what. She wasn't paying attention, too lost in her own mind. She felt herself being pulled up to her feet and directed towards the door.

She had imagined the whole thing. There was no shadow coming to get her. No woman had died. In fact, as she walked out the door and down the corridor, she realized that she was in school, in broad day light, with her friends and as safe as safe could possibly get. But it had all felt so real.

And that was what scared her. She had been convinced that everything that had happened was real. It _had_ been real to her. But only to her. No one else had experienced it.

_You're losing it_, she heard in her mind, a voice breeching her train of thought, as if someone was speaking directly to her. But how could anyone speak to her in her mind? Mind-reading only existed in things like superhero stories and Twilight. Her imagination was running wild, she realized, planting things in her head that would never translate into reality. But whatever it was, that voice in her head was probably right. She _was_ losing it, and that scared her more than dying.


	2. Chapter One

**A/N: Two weeks later...and this is the result. I'm not sure why I'm so inspired, but you're not gonna read about me complaining. Hopefully anyone reading this will like it as much as I do. Apart from that, I've got nothing else to say. Um..reviews make me happy. (=**

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_Paris, France_

_1983_

The minute his hand touched the cold steel of the Institute's doors, a flash of pain ignited in the palm of Valentine's hand which sent shockwaves all through his body. He pulled his hand away from the door, contemplating whether or not he should actually push it open, knowing only too well that that particular course of action would hurt more than simply touching it. He raised his arm towards the door once again—and then let it drop to his side.

He heaved a great sigh, as if he had the weight of the whole world on his shoulders and he was weary of it. Of course, that was exactly how he'd felt since his father passed away two months ago. And that was how he felt when he thought of all the Circle members and their bright, open faces, not truly understanding why it was that he was so adamant in his mission against the Clave. And that was how he felt when he looked at his mother, with her blue, blue eyes and all the sadness that filled them. That was also how he felt when he looked at himself in the mirror and saw the spitting image of his father, now deceased.

He felt heavy and he felt quite dead. Rather like the demon he'd left in the alley.

Valentine looked up to the sky, seeing the full moon shining brightly as if all the torment his soul was facing mattered little to her. The night his father died, it had been raining, almost as if the world was grieving the loss of such a great man and had permitted the heavens to open up and let their torrent of tears flow. But it had rained on that night only and it left a lot for a seventeen year old boy to ponder on. Why couldn't the world be sad for him as well? He was the one who had been left to somehow continue his father's remarkable legacy. He was the one who had to come to terms and try to fix his mother's ever growing depression. He was the one whom the world had forgotten. He felt unloved.

And right now, he felt stupid.

He moved away from the doors and their wretched steely texture and began backing up and backing up and backing up—until his back came into contact with the cold cement of a wall. Feeling the solidity and the firmness of the wall behind him, Valentine sank to the ground and began to relax against it, a throbbing in his forearm that never seemed to stop serving as the only reminder of the injuries he'd acquired tonight. And of all the things he wanted to forget.

He still heard the inhuman scream that had been ripped from the demon as his seraph blade plunged into its flesh over and over again, digging under its skin in blows which had been precise and executed to cause it other-worldly pain. Valentine felt guilty for doing so. In all of his years living amongst Shadowhunters and learning how to be a good one in its most prestigious academy, he knew that his job was to protect humans—_mundanes_—from things which they knew nothing about, and so he knew that that demon needed to die. It had deserved to die after all the damage it had caused to both mundanes as well as the Nephilim, but he couldn't remove the guilt from his heart. There had been no need to kill the demon in such a crude, torturous way. He could still hear the demon's shrieks of pain as if it were screaming right in his ear.

Desperate for a way to escape the screams that would not stop echoing in his ears, Valentine closed his eyes. _Really_ closed them. He squeezed his eyes shut with a vengeance, using up whatever energy he'd managed to restore on his way back to the Institute to push away the screams and the guilt that was burning him from the inside.

Unfortunately, he couldn't numb his mind to the onslaught of memories and millions of thoughts raced across his mind. Millions of thoughts which wouldn't leave him alone. Millions of thoughts that he was almost afraid of, that made him feel human.

He could feel the acidic blood burning its way through his skin, a brand of pain that no Shadowhunter, no matter how strong, no matter how well-trained, was immune to. And when he finally moved and pulled the seraph blade out of the demon, its stomach opened up like a flower before him, thick, black liquid pouring out in abundance, dripping on the ground, creating a pool about it as it fell to the ground. No screams would come then. At last, the night was silent, just like it was supposed to be. As it lay on the ground, shaking convulsively, the demon looked up at Valentine, its eyes a blank canvas of scarlet, staring directly at him. A chill shot through Valentine's spine then and he began to back away from the demon. But underneath him, his legs lost all the strength they possessed and sent him tumbling to the ground. His breathing had become erratic and deafening to his ears when he caught the demon's gaze, and for the first time in a long time, Valentine Morgenstern was afraid.

He was afraid of a dying demon.

An unexpected breeze whipped cold air across Valentine's face so viciously, it felt like he'd been slapped. He broke out of his reverie, only to be greeted by the moon's waning light, casting the most abominable, depression-inducing shadows upon every single thing out in the courtyard. And then he simply decided that he couldn't stand just sitting there anymore. Not when the world itself was mocking him.

With grace that seemed unnatural for a man of six feet, Valentine got up from his spot on the ground in one fluid motion and made for the door. He frowned ferociously at the door and at its steel embellishments that made pushing it open even harder for him. He marched up to the offensive object, raised his arms, both his palms facing outward and set his hands on the door. Just as he applied the softest of pressures upon the door, it suddenly flew open.

Wisps of fiery red hair which had escaped the bun they'd been put in flew between them as that wretched breeze made an appearance again, and Valentine could just sense the tension in her body language. "I was waiting by the window like a dog and you decided that you'd sit out here?"

He blinked, just to make certain that he wasn't dreaming. And then he blinked again, but the image of a very angry sixteen-year old would not leave his line of vision. And just as the ghost of a smile began to dance upon his lips, irritation bubbled up in his person and all he wanted to do was hit her. But Valentine Morgenstern would never hit a lady—unless it was absolutely necessary. And this situation did not call for him to hit Jocelyn. "My apologies. I didn't realize that I was so terribly missed."

Jocelyn's eyes hardened as she detected the hint of annoyance in his tone. "I could do without your sarcasm, Valentine, nor your rudeness," she said as she tugged him into the Institute, pulling him along behind her into the infirmary, her ears straining to hear the soft _thud_ that the doors made when they finally shut and felt relief wash over her when she heard what she'd wanted to.

"I could say the same thing about your own rudeness, Jocelyn." She looked up at him, this tall, broad-shouldered, guarded figure behind her and tried to scrutinize his expression. She couldn't see anything.

She sat him down in a wooden chair which she was positive was too small for him. A satisfied smirk crawled up to her lips. Well, he shouldn't have been so mean to me, she thought. It was petty, but a sixteen year old with the biggest crush on the most amazing boy in school was allowed to be petty.

When her gaze fell upon the makeshift bandage upon Valentine's forearm, however, she wanted nothing more than to wipe that smirk off her face. She looked up at him again and caught the weary, tired expression he wore for only a second before the calm demeanor settled into him once more. She pursed her lips and gingerly untied the knots of the blood-stained cloth, unwrapping it from around his forearm to expose the injury—and winced. What was on his forearm was one of the worst gashes she'd seen ever afflicted unto his strong, perfectly trained body.

"I don't think I know of a rune to fix that," she said, pointing to the gash in his arm.

Although his mouth was set in a firm, straight line, his eyes twinkled and danced at a joke which she didn't understand, didn't even know, but was all too happy to be a part of. "I don't believe I know one either. Perhaps you could simply…stitch it up?"

She nodded and began to move all over the place, and Valentine watched her in silence. He had never felt so tired in his life, and this wasn't even the most challenging of kills he's ever encountered. Something about tonight and about the demon was making him tired, fed-up. And knowing how she felt about him, something about Jocelyn, too, was disturbing him. Valentine raised his hand to his face—the uninjured arm, of course—and started to massage his temple quite rigorously, as if he'd be able to stop thinking for a minute by doing so. That demon had instilled a fear in him that no Shadowhunter should feel, especially not after ten years of border-line torturous training.

He sighed—something that he didn't indulge in and yet had already done twice in the space of fifteen minutes. He removed his hand from his forehead and allowed it to return to its previous spot on his lap, allowing his eyes to roam the familiar ceiling of the infirmary.

"You know," were the two words that brought his attention back to the red-head standing only a few feet away from him. "I think you get into trouble on purpose. It's like you're acting out." Jocelyn's eyes searched his for any signs of anger. However, not fully comprehending what she was saying, there was not a hint of anger within Valentine. He raised one eyebrow, something he did which most of the academy envied. "You're crying for help, Valentine, whether or not you realize it."

And just like that, comprehension snaked its way into Valentine's eyes. He looked away from Jocelyn. "I'm fine. My father's death hasn't taken such a toll on me."

"Yet," she said softly, but not, apparently, soft enough that he couldn't hear it.

Valentine started to shift in his seat, fury building up in him for what had to be the hundredth time that day. It was amazing how short his temper was nowadays. "Anyway," Jocelyn continued, noticing the glimmer of irritation in his posture, "we shouldn't be talking about this. We have a wound to tend to, after all." She smiled her most cheerful smile at him, but the smile wasn't reciprocated. He was even looking at her. Perhaps she'd gone too far, she reprimanded herself. She shouldn't have said anything.

When Jocelyn kneeled and pulled a table on which there was a candle noisily towards them, Valentine looked fully away. He knew what was coming and he'd rather not watch as the Jocelyn poked the needle into his skin and started stitching the wound as if she were working on some embroidery. He closed his eyes again, this time not to block out unwanted thoughts, but to give himself up to the exhaustion taking over his body. He saw black this time—_thank the Angel!_—and when he felt the needle poking out of his skin, he let himself give into the tiredness seeping through his bones.

"Do wake me up when you're done, Jocelyn," he said to her, not bothering to open his eyes. And then he could truly succumb to slumber, and not think about the demon or its eyes or even what he had glimpsed in them.`


	3. Chapter Two

**A/N: It is currently 3.00 a.m. here in Malaysia and I must say, I'm pretty darn sleepy. First off, I'd like to give a special shout out to beautifulxxflame who has been the soul of kindness since I first uploaded this story. I wasn't able to update in the week itself, but I am forsaking sleep to finish this. Don't hit me, please? xD Well, other than that, I hope whoever reads this enjoys it and that you'll leave a review. Reviews make for a happy Izzie. (=**

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Valentine's pace quickened as yet another flash of lightning split the sky into two. The sudden light that it produced seemed to bounce off the walls of the Institute, supplying the hallway with an eerie look. He had never been one to be afraid of storms, so he began to berate himself as he made his way to the sanctuary, slowing down his pace to prove to himself exactly how much he _didn't_ fear storms. But then a ferocious thunder bellowed from the skies above and he swore he could've felt the whole Institute shaking with the force of the thunder. His legs began to move faster, carrying him along the hallway as quickly as they could. Whenever he would pass a window, he would run across it as if someone had set up an ambush there and he had to get away from it before they had the chance to jump out and knock him unconscious. Or something like that.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, his own voice sounded. "Idiot," it said. "Running away from thunderstorms. It won't kill you."

And again, his pace slowed. So much so that he almost came to a complete halt. He _was_ an idiot for running. When the first of the thunders had clapped, his eyes had opened instantly and his first instinct was to throw his covers off of his person, jump out of his bed and make a run for it. He had never reacted to anything that way ever in his life.

He stopped running, his hand shooting up to his forehead, unconsciously hiding a little, white scar from view. Despite the exhaustion he had felt earlier tonight and was _still_ feeling, his body was fighting the urge to flee, and as another thunder rumbled, he felt himself flinch—and hated himself for it. He was so jumpy tonight. Even earlier, as he had walked back to the Institute, the pain in his shoulder flaring with ever second that passed, he had looked that-a-way and this-a-way, his mind never ceasing to race with thoughts. His Shadowhunter training had indeed taught him to be cautious and wary of everything, but it had not taught him to be a jumpy little coward and it certainly had not taught him to look over his shoulder at the darkness behind him for no reason.

A sigh escaped his lips—the third one that night. Valentine let his body slump against a wall and slowly slid down to a squatting position. This was what he had finally been reduced to, he thought grimly to himself. When his father was alive, he had been a shining beacon in the Shadowhunter community, the one that would take them to new heights. He had had a confidence about him that should've repelled others away from him. Instead, they were drawn to him like moths to light. But then his father died and ever since then, he had been tired. And he had had no friends. Not real ones anyway. They couldn't get too close to him for fear of being burned. The only one who even tried any longer was Lucian. And Jocelyn perhaps, but even she was careful around him nowadays.

And he was careful around her as well, he reminded himself. It was a responsibility he did not want, taking care of Jocelyn's heart. The memory of Maryse's face and her wide, wide smile as she told him of the news lingered in his mind and the words that tumbled out of her mouth burned within him like a terrible blaze. Jocelyn Fairchild was an amazing person. He knew this. Since she had joined the Circle all those months ago, he had been protective of her and he had kept her close and he knew how she was. She was so passionate about life, about the Circle and their mission and now, it seems that she was passionate about him, too. But his father had always told him that when he saw Valentine's mother at the age of nine, he _knew_, and the old cliché rang true. Time stopped when their eyes met and he felt his heart skip a beat.

When Valentine had first laid eyes on Jocelyn, he didn't know what he felt, but he was certain that his heart hadn't skipped a beat. Time did not stop. There was not even an imaginary choir singing and imaginary church bells ringing. He should have felt like he'd been slapped by the hand of God, or that the angels had dumped a bucket of ice cold water onto him, at the very least. But he had felt nothing. All he had felt was a sense of obligation to smile at this fiery-haired girl as she demanded to know Lucian's whereabouts.

Valentine ran a hand through his hair, something he often did when he felt cornered or frustrated. "Perhaps you need an escape," he said to himself in a bid to calm down the wave of emotion all the reminiscing had stirred inside him. "Perhaps that is why you've been so out of character lately. You just want to run away from everything, gather your wits. Put your life back in order." But even as he said it, he knew it wasn't true.

Valentine Morgenstern did not run away from things. Valentine Morgenstern stayed and fought. Valentine Morgenstern was a Shadowhunter through and through.

And yet, now, he felt more human than ever.

"But you're not human! By the Angel, Valentine, what is wrong with you?" he whispered harshly to himself, and nearly didn't hear himself as thunder and lightning merged to wreak havoc upon his soul.

He didn't bother to look up, didn't bother to look out the window before setting for the sanctuary yet again. The ear-splitting sounds that came with the storm faded into the background. All he heard were the light sounds his bare feet made as he made his way down the hallway. Although his witchlight was dim, he could just make out the shape of the main doors through the darkness that seemed to envelope everything around him. As he got closer and closer to the doors, his eyes narrowing at the memory of how much the steel workmanship had hurt his scraped palms, his mind seemed to suddenly remember that the sanctuary was not very far from the entrance. His eyes widened at the thought and for the first time since he'd left the Institute that night, his eyes weren't clouded with vehemence toward the inanimate object.

His footsteps began to grow louder and louder and it was only when he felt a light breeze blow through his hair that he realized he had started running. His body was determined to do what it wanted tonight, it seemed. He had to find a way to be more aware of himself, though. It was not good to be aware of his surroundings yet not know what was happening with his own person. Although, for now, he thought, he would save that chore for later when the sun had risen and his world had returned to a state of normalcy. If he could just continue to ignore the—

_BOOM! BOOM!_

As that sound echoed throughout the Institute, Valentine felt his heart slam against his chest and fall eight stories down. The first had merely been thunder, but the second one—the second one was definitely not something of Mother Nature's concoction and it wasn't right. It wasn't nearly as loud as all the other sounds that had emerged from the sky tonight and it was…_closer._

He turned back around to peer at the doors, the Institute having unexpectedly gone beyond silent. He walked slowly towards the door, every muscle, nerve and bone in his body wanting to rush towards the doors and throw them open, yet he kept his pace, his Shadowhunter training taking over. He didn't know what was out there, he reasoned with himself. It could be a demon or a thirsty vampire. Or it could be an insane Shadowhunter, come to exact revenge upon all other Nephilim. Did he really expect something harmless to show up on the steps of the Paris Institute?

This place was an overflowing cup when it came to Downworlders and demons.

Valentine leaned in towards the door, bringing his ear closer and closer until he could just barely feel the rough wooden texture of it upon his skin. He breathed in deeply, and then held still, waiting for whatever it was outside to make its move.

Then, two bangs, one coming directly after the other, broke the silence. His eyes roamed the darkness, searching for something he could use as a weapon to subdue the creature outside when he did finally open the door. Whatever it was, it would regret coming here and it would regret ever laying eyes on him. He saw the glint of something profoundly metal from the walls by the sanctuary's door and moved to retrieve it.

"Open the door. Please, open the door." He was stopped dead in his tracks. All thoughts of weapons and subduing demons left his mind, leaving only emptiness and a state of panic. "They're coming to get me."

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When the person on the other side of the line picked up and the phone let loose his French accent, all she could do was cry as she listened to him. "_Mon Cherie,_ is it you? Rose? Rose, is this you? Where are you calling from?" The air wouldn't enter lungs, damn it. Every time she breathed in air, it would get caught in her throat. And now, as Francois continued to prod her on, it only got worse. With every fibre of her being, she wanted to tell him exactly where she was and what was happening to her, but she couldn't stop crying. And somewhere, in the back of her mind, she knew that the reason she was crying was not because of the fear that had taken over her person, her whole body, but because she was afraid that he would react the way Aunt Katherine did.

Oh, he had been furious when she showed up on his doorstep a week ago, telling him all about what Aunt Katherine wanted to do to her. But he hadn't known what was happening to her. He didn't know about the voices she heard in her head and how they'd been tormenting her. He didn't know that she _thought_ she saw things. And if she told him about it, he, too, would drag her, kicking and screaming, into an asylum.

She couldn't tell him, and all Rose could do was cry even harder. He was the one person left in this world that she could turn to, yet she couldn't tell him about her troubles. What was the point of her running away all the way to Paris then?

"Rose?" he cried into the phone. "Rose, where are you? Tell me. I'll come get you."

Even though she knew he couldn't see, she shook her head. Her eyes burned from all the tears she'd shed tonight, and while she stood there, leaning against the payphone, she could feel the passers-by looking at her. They probably thought she was crazy, too, she thought. "What's happened? Did someone do something to you?" The concern in Francois' voice was evident as she breathed hard into the phone. "Tell me where you are, Rose. We'll go to the police. They'll catch whoever did this to you."

"The police would think I'm completely bonkers in the head and they'd throw me into an asylum with strait jackets and everything," she wanted to say to him, but didn't. She couldn't say anything. She had somehow lost her voice.

Her mind was in whirls. This had been happening for months and she had been perfect at keeping it a secret. When she had had visions of being violently stabbed with an almost beautiful dagger, she had kept it to herself. When she had noticed someone following her, she didn't tell anyone, deciding to believe that her mind was playing tricks on her. When she had been attacked on her way home from her friend's house, she had kept it a secret. She had felt someone beating her over and over again and when she finally got away from him, her body ached from all the torture it had been put through. It had felt real. It had been real. As she ran all the way back to her aunt's house, she had seen the bruises littered all over her arms and she had felt them on the places she couldn't see, but when she had made it to her aunt's house, when she was safe and beyond ready to wake her aunt and uncle up to tell them what had happened to her, they had disappeared.

The bruises had simply disappeared.

So she simply kept quiet.

But then, weeks later, someone had leaped onto the car she had been in and she had screamed in terror. She saw him break the mirror with his fist and reach inside to grab her. Her screams grew louder in volume, but no one knew just how terrified she was. And then she saw her friend and her brother's eyes looking straight at her through the rearview mirror. Everything was alright. The mirror was intact and her friend's brother hadn't looked like he had just hit someone. She could have kept that event a secret, too, except that two people had seen her and she'd had no other choice but to tell them.

And then they'd told her aunt and uncle and they decided that it would be better off if she spent the rest of her life in a mental hospital. So they did, and she managed to break free, to escape—and then she ran all the way here, to Paris, hoping that she had finally outrun the insanity that was her life back in England.

_We're coming, Rosalind_, she heard a voice say, and it was a voice that she was all too familiar with. She could still hear Francois speaking, but she hung up on him and tried to pull the door open. It wouldn't budge. Panic raced through every nerve-ending in her body as she tried again and again and again to pull the door open, but it still wouldn't move, and all the time, that same voice kept telling her that he was getting closer and that he was going to get her. So she began to scream and pound on the Plexiglas door with all her might. A man came by and pulled the door open from the outside, horror splayed out in abundance upon his features.

He started to say something, but she pushed right past him and started running. She had been running for the past few months and she was running now and she didn't think she would ever stop.

Rose felt the hard, hard road digging into the soles of her feet, pricking the skin with every step that she took, but she couldn't have cared any less if she had wanted to. _I'm coming to get you, Rosalind. And I'll get you if it's the last thing I do._

He sounded close. He sounded _so_ close.

Part of her wanted to stop, to fall onto the ground and let her tears cease while she waited there, in the middle of busy, busy Paris, for her tormentors to come and get her. At least then she would have assurance that she wasn't crazy, that everything she had experienced since she'd turned sixteen was real. Getting caught was better than living her life fearing that she truly was insane. But her legs would not stop moving. They continued to carry her, tears and broken spirit and all, towards a beautiful building.

A beautiful, abandoned building. A church.

Then just like that, the urge to give up disappeared. She ran towards the church as fast she could, ignoring the fire in her lungs, the fire in her legs, the racing of her heart. In her mind was a childhood memory of Esmeralda pounding upon the doors of the Notre Dame, crying sanctuary. She could find sanctuary in that church. Surely it wasn't abandoned. Surely there was a kindly hunchback inside who would provide her with protection.

She gathered up her skirt and lifted them up to her knees so that her legs would receive no restrictions as they ran. Rose could see the church getting closer and closer and—_yes!_ Her right foot landed on the very first step that led up to the grand doors of the structure. She took them two at a time, joy washing all over her.

Rose threw herself against the door and heard a resounding _boom_ as a result of her actions. Someone must've heard me, she thought to herself, and then they'll come and open the door. So she waited. However, half a minute passed, and there was no indication that anyone had heard her. Feeling panic take over her again, she lifted her arms and beat her fists against the heavy doors consecutively. "Open the door. Please, open the door," she cried in desperation. Her heart broke when there was no response. She wasn't crazy. She didn't want to be crazy, but she was feeling the first bits of hysteria setting into her.

The voice came again, and this time, it sounded more malicious than it ever had before. _Stay put, my pet. I've got you now._

As the first tear rolled down her cheek, she heard herself say the one thing she would never have said aloud before. "They're coming to get me." Perhaps that would convince the hunchback inside—or whoever was in there—that she was in real trouble and that she needed help. She waited for another minute, although she had realized five seconds into waiting that it was obvious no one was going to open the door. It was an abandoned church. There was no one inside.

So she turned around and ran back down the steps.


	4. Chapter Three

**A/N: I think this chapter's kinda weird and I don't know whether or not I like it. But, eh. xD Well, then, you know the drill! R&R PLEASE! REVIEWS MAKE ME HAPPY! (=**

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"_Open the door. Please, open the door."_

At the sound of her voice, hearing the desperation evident in it, Valentine's eyes shot wide open. He could feel his heart racing within his rib cage. Despite its beating rivaling that of a hummingbird's wings, Valentine felt a sharp pain with every beat that his heart made. It was as if it was trying to kick its way out of his chest, leaving a bloody mess in its place.

He felt tired. The sort of tired that made one want to simply collapse into his bed and never wake up. _Ever_. Reluctantly, as if it would pain him very much to do so, the Shadowhunter let another sigh breathe through his lips. After what had been one of the most terrible nights he's ever needed to endure in his life, he had finally been able to fall asleep in a rather uncomfortable chair, much to his already fatigued body's chagrin. Still, sleep was sleep and he was grateful for the peaceful one he had managed to snag last night.

But then that voice had broken through the deep, thick serenity of his sleep and had forced him awake, the fear laced in every word making his whole body contract, wanting, _needing_ to get away from it. Last night, when he'd decided to obtain some rest not in the Sanctuary, but in the library, he had been too tired and too bitter with himself to question his actions, why he hadn't opened the door. But that was last night. Right now, his side of the world had slipped into morning, effectively bringing him into tomorrow and there was no getting away from it. His mind reeled with the thousand and one questions that seemed to arrive incessantly, one right after the other. Rather like how that girl had banged on the door.

Oh, for God's sake, Valentine, he thought harshly. Was it not enough that his questioning thoughts were trying their damnedest to force guilt unto him—not that it actually _needed_ much forcing. He felt terrible already—now his memories were participating in the efforts as well?

Valentine looked down at his hand, at how his fingers were so tightly wound around the armrest of the chair. He released them one by one, noting how they ached as he stretched them out like a starfish. They had probably been that way all night. Perhaps his sleep hadn't been as peaceful as his mind would delude him into thinking. Perhaps he'd had a dream and had simply forgotten about it. Besides, if he'd truly had fallen into such deep slumber, unaware of the world around him, he wouldn't be this tired.

He gripped the armrest a little too tightly for his liking as he braced all his weight upon them and pushed himself out of the chair, his eyes scanning the two gigantic bookcases on either side of him. It was made of dark wood, quite possibly mahogany, but the dark, almost-black colouring of it made Valentine think that it had been painted over. There were many pure mahogany shelves in his home—and tables and chairs and beds. His bed, to be precise—and he'd seen them enough times to know that none of them were even close to being black. The rug underneath his bare feet was soft and had the most intricate floral patterns on them. Something about the flowers jumped out at him, as if they were something he'd seen long ago as a child, but he pushed the thought away upon further inspection. The flowers looked nothing like what he'd ever seen. He'd never even encountered them in books before. Perhaps the maker of the rug had wanted to create a new species of hybrid flowers and had taken his creativity out on the rug.

"Open the door."

Valentine's head snapped up the moment he heard the sentence being uttered. He backed up, shock taking over his entire body, sending him crashing into a small table. All the training he'd received for nearly a decade now did nothing to help make the fall less painful. He'd been taught the proper positions to adjust his body to when falling was inevitable, but it seemed that the many instructions his teachers had screamed at him had disappeared.

At the very last minute, his arms shot out behind him, his palms facing outward towards the marble floor, prepared to support the weight of him crashing down onto the floor. Except they weren't prepared in the least bit and when he felt the cold marble against his skin and his body falling gracelessly onto it, pain exploded from his wrists, coursing through both his arms until he was left with no other choice but to bite back a cry. He tasted the distinct metallic taste that blood held and had to bite back a _curse_ this time as he realised that he'd bitten into his lower lip.

From outside, he heard someone slamming something—most likely their own person—against the door and the force of it was so strong, that Valentine thought the doors were actually going to give out under the pressure and burst open. Or break into two. And then an angry voice, one that sounded nothing like the one he'd heard last night, came through the solid material as loudly and as clearly as if the person doing the talking was in the library itself, close to Valentine, not separated from him by a thick—_oak?_—door. "_Monsieur_ Morgenstern, open this door right this instant. I will not have you pulling this disappearing act any longer. I know you're in there." The voice was tinged with an unmistakable French accent and Valentine felt relief wash through his entire body. He remembered the voice he'd heard last night perfectly and he knew for a fact that it did not belong to anyone remotely French. "Open this door. RIGHT. NOW." A kick to the door accompanied this last sentence that made Valentine get up from his position on the floor, a dull throbbing in his wrists screaming at him not to use his hands.

But the door had handles and he had to open the door lest he risk angering Madame Lambert even further. He placed his hand on the silver door handles, reveling in the temporary numbness the cold of the steel provided his aching hands, and pushed down on them as hard and as quick as he could. Once he heard the doors click, he retracted his hand with such speed that one would've thought the handles were burning.

And through the doors, walked in a woman who looked nothing like his mother. Madame Lambert was tall and she had a broadness about her shoulders that suggested she spent much time training and exercising. The Angel's children consisted of both men and women, but the Shadowhunting world was predominantly run by the male of their kind and it wasn't easy being a woman in that world. Obviously, she's spent a lot of her time proving that the women were just as good as the men, if not better. His mother's walk, the soft, soundless steps that she took even when running and in battle, had been committed to his memory and it was familiar. But the way Madame Lambert walked…there was power in her stride, a sense of pride that made her seem almost pompous. Her eyes were a striking shade of green with an edge of hardness to it that made it painfully clear to him that this woman had endured much in her life, had seen much. And her thick, dark brown hair was never released from the tight bun that it was trapped in. Valentine vaguely wondered if she slept with her hair swept up in that manner as well. If she did, it couldn't have been comfortable.

Madame Lambert marched right up to him, her back ramrod straight, her posture as rigid as ever. And it became even more rigid when she caught sight of the wreckage behind him, namely the overturned table and broken lamp that had accompanied him during his earlier fall. Her eyes narrowed to slits and she shot murderous glares at him. Valentine had the feeling that she wanted to throttle him, to throw him out of the Institute—which she ran—and kick him all the way back to Alicante. And he didn't doubt that she would do it, too, if he provoked her overmuch.

"I have spoken to Fairchild," she said, her heavy French accent sending his brain spiraling into a headache as it worked over time to figure out what she was saying. "She says that you came back here last night, to _my_ Institute, bleeding and 'torn up', as she had put it." Valentine simply stared at her as she looked at him, expecting an answer or a defense, but he said nothing. "Your school and your parents allowed you to come here so that you may gain more experience. If you are that dumb, Mr Morgenstern, it means that you are only to hunt in the presence of other, more experienced Shadowhunters, _not_ go stalking off on your own."

His young blood boiled at the insult. No one had ever called him stupid in his life. "Moreover, you refused to get an _iratze,_ preferring instead to let it heal naturally to show off, presumably. Well, here's news for you, young man. People don't take to characters like you, always thinking their better than everyone else."

This was probably not the best time to inform her of his injured wrists, he decided. She'd probably be able to think up more insults faster than he could say 'Die'. "And then you disappear in the middle of the night, not to be found by any of your friends." _Friends_. Hah! He didn't have any friends. "You, boy, have sent us on a manhunt in this Institute, wasting my energy and that of others and frankly, I am very tired of you. To top it all off, you lock me out of my own library and then damage an antique table. Well, you can forget about breakfast, Mr Morgenstern, and any other meal for the day."

"Well, that's fine with me," he snapped. "I do not feel the pangs of hunger in my stomach and I most certainly will not eat anymore snail." He hadn't been able to contain himself any longer, anger boiling away inside him, threatening to implode into a full-fledged storm. No one had ever spoken in that fashion to him in his life and he most definitely would not tolerate it from this…this…this _fascist_. "Who in the world eats _snail_ anyway?"

And with that, he walked past Madame Lambert, doing his best impression of arrogance. His back was straight, his shoulders pulled back, his chin up, holding his head high and he made sure that every step he took, he took with purpose, as if he was doing someone a favour just by walking. When he reached the door, he turned around to look at the back of Madame Lambert's head. "And you can go ahead and report this to my mother. Do tell her of her son's atrocious behaviour, how rude he is. I don't care." He then spun on his heels and walked with as much dignity as he could muster along the length of the hallway, putting a distance of at least six feet between him and the library—and the woman in there—in less than two minutes.

Then he broke into a run.

He didn't stop running until he came face to face with the door of the guest room he'd been sleeping in for the past few days. He'd only been a here a short while and thus could not tell apart the uncannily similar doors, but for today, he knew exactly which door was his because Lucian and Jocelyn would not loiter about someone else's room. They looked up when they heard footsteps getting closer. The two younger Shadowhunters looked at him in silence as he strode past them towards the door and shoved it open. They scrambled in without bothering to first seek his permission, and promptly made themselves at home with Jocelyn flopping down onto the bed and Lucian collapsing into it as if he owned it.

Valentine looked at them through the mirror on one of the closet's doors and he could see the question in their eyes. Where had he been? What happened to make him disappear like that? But instead, Lucian said, "So I take it Lambert wanted to bite your head off?"

A rueful smile passed fleetingly through his lips, but he said nothing in response. Of course Madame Lambert had wanted to murder him. Or at the very least maim him. He suspected that the only things keeping her from doing so was knowledge that she could be killed in a worse fashion for the murder of a Shadowhunter, and the fact that he was a Morgenstern.

Lucian, always so understanding, seemed to realize that whatever it was that had transpired last night, Valentine had no wish to talk about it. So he rid himself of the questions that he'd been mulling over again and again as he waited for Valentine to show up. Jocelyn, however, was not content. She had seen how he was last night first hand, experienced how short his temper was, noticed the way he was so completely out of character. And she burned to know what was happening to him. She hoped that her eyes were able to deliver the message.

Unfortunately, Valentine was not looking at her. He was looking at his reflection in the mirror, his mouth set in a grim line, his brow furrowed as he studied himself. He was different. He'd changed when his father died, but he hadn't changed this much. He felt like he was missing something, that there was something he wasn't seeing. And things that he hadn't thought of the night before. His memory of the encounter with the demon was much more than a filthy back alley and blood. There was something else, something he'd missed.

Like what the demon was doing there in the first place and how he'd noticed it.

He ran his hand through his hair once more, his whole body seething with frustration not just because of the demon, but also because of Madame Lambert and her ridiculous tirade. And that girl who'd come by last night. Why didn't he open the door? He had heard with his own ears how terrified she'd been, but he hadn't opened the door. What would he see, he wondered now, if he went downstairs and threw the doors open the way he should have done the night before? Would he see the stiff, dead body of a scared girl?

"That is it," he spat at himself, noticing how the two Shadowhunters behind him reacted to the vehemence in his words. "I am never coming back to Paris."


	5. Chapter Four

**A/N: I think that Abba has some really nice songs and I know for a fact that Dancing Queen has always been able to lift my spirits. Yeah, I like them. I can't help it. Well, as ever, you know what to do. R&R! Reviews are welcomed on this side of the world. (=**

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Bitterly, Valentine thought about how he couldn't stay away from Paris. Despite his earlier proclamation of never wanting to step into Paris ever again, he had found himself walking out of the Institute's doors as quickly as he could to see the city. He'd been here many times with his parents. France was, after all, a neighbouring country of Idris and it had been the simplest of things to pop into the city with the use of a Portal.

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket, whistling to himself as a substitute for a wince when a searing pain burned in his left wrist. While in the shower, he had quickly realized that his left hand had been the one to bear the brunt of his weight as he fell and was thus sprained. He had thought about using a rune on it, just to obliterate the pain, but chose not to instead. It was just a sprain. A light sprain, even. It was nothing that he couldn't handle. He'd had worse injuries, his mind had told him, convincing him not to rush back to his room and grab a stele. And he hadn't. But, as he strode down the length of a bridge, taking him across the Seine, he wished by everything that was good in the world that he had.

The pain was abominable!

He stopped mid-route, earning a hiss of annoyance from the person behind him. Without turning to look at the mundane behind him, Valentine took himself to the railings along the side of the bridge. He looked down at the water of the Seine. It was murky—not at all like what rivers back home in Idris looked like—and he couldn't see through the water at all. He only saw an image of himself on the water's surface, the line of his body and the features of his face distorted, but he recognized the reflection as his own.

In the back of his mind, a song he'd heard a long time ago echoed through his memories. "Walks along the Seine, laughing in the rain. Our last summer, memories that remained." He felt a smile play upon his lips as he sang his favourite line of the song, recalling how his mother had looked when his father sang her that song. And how she'd laughed when he had ruined the romantic moment by announcing his hunger.

And he was hungry now, he realized. He hadn't been able to eat dinner last night, and after his encounter with Madame Lambert and her punishment of not allowing him within fifty feet of food, he hadn't been able to eat breakfast either. And now, it was closing in on three in the afternoon and he still hadn't had lunch. Although, when he'd left the Institute an hour ago, he'd told himself that he wouldn't eat outside. He didn't want to make himself out as a weakling, especially since he was certain with every fibre of his being, with every cell that made up his person, that Madame Lambert was expecting him to sneak into the kitchen and steal some food. Well, he wouldn't fall into her expectation, wouldn't give her what she wanted. What was a day without food anyway?

But then his stomach growled in protest to his thoughts. He looked distastefully at it, his mind screaming at it to shut up. It wasn't like he needed a reminder of how hungry he was.

While he was busy getting his knickers in a twist over his upset stomach, a couple had come to stand next to him, the man taking a picture of the woman—_his _woman—against the backdrop of the Eiffel Tower. The man then touched Valentine's shoulder, resulting in the Shadowhunter's fight or flight reflexes kicking in. And for him, the choice had been very clear—to fight. He swiveled around much faster than any normal person would've been able to and his hand went to his belt to retrieve his seraph blade. The only thing keeping him from drawing his weapon was the fact that he was in a public spot and had any mundane seen him, they would scream and report him to the police as a murderous psychopath. He was grateful for small favours, though, such as his mind's rationalization and Shadowhunter training to not cause a scene, when he saw the man beaming at him.

The words that the man uttered were German, a language as familiar to him as English. He'd grown up hearing his father speak it. "Could you take a picture of me and my fiancée?" he asked. Valentine looked down at the odd-looking, rectangular contraption in the man's hand. He recognized it as a camera. All the pictures in his home were portraits, painted by Alicante's artists. All except one: a photo of him as a boy, sulking in his winter coat in front of Big Ben in London. He took the camera from the man's hand, flashing the warmest smile he could muster as he did so. He began to panic, though, when he suddenly remembered that he hadn't the faintest idea how to use a camera. Before he could look up questioningly, however, the German man said, "You just press this button to take the shot," pointing at the biggest button on the camera's body.

He nodded and took his position before the woman as the man scrambled to join her. He brought the camera closer to his face, peering through a small, clear opening in the bulky black contraption. He saw the couple through the lens and counted out for them to hear. "_Eins, zwei, drei._" He pressed the button, the camera making a clicking sound as it snapped the picture. The woman bounded up to him, her tinkling voice entering his ears as she thanked him. She retrieved the camera and went back to her fiancé, who smiled at him before they both walked away.

Valentine watched them walk, watched as the man snaked his arm around the woman's waist. And then he turned his attention back to the water, feeling disappointed when he saw nothing but dark river. It was stupid, though, to feel disappointed. For all he knew, the water could've looked like that for the past few centuries and wouldn't simply clear as if by magic. Fed up with the water and its ungodly colouring, Valentine drew his eyes away from the river and looked at the scene unfolded before him.

Watching the Parisian skyline, he now felt relieved of the guilt he'd felt when he went back on his words. Paris truly was beautiful and although he's been here far too many times to count—16 times, actually—he felt awed. There was always something new about Paris even though no new buildings had been added to either sides of the Seine. Perhaps he was simply looking at it with brand new eyes.

The Eiffel Tower stood proud not too far away from where he was, the steel laid out intricately to form the structure. From here, the tower looked almost black, although he knew it was more a shade of brownish-gray than it was black. It was a plain building. It didn't hold thousands of years of history like the Coliseum in Rome or even hold the body of a pharoah like the pyramids in Egypt, but it had went on to become the national icon that would represent France. He could see the elevator crawling up the tower at a slow pace as a gust of cold, autumn wind blew past, and he wished that he'd brought enough money to go up, too.

But he hadn't and the only thing he could do was stare at it like the Angel himself had descended onto Earth.

Eventually, Valentine pried himself away from the edge of the bridge, knowing that if he didn't make himself walk away, he'd be standing there all through the day, looking at the Eiffel Tower like an idiot. And then Madame Lambert truly would kick him all the way back to Alicante.

He whistled the tune of Our Last Summer by Abba as he walked down the steps. All around him, there were couples holding hands and whispering to each other. There were whole families with long loaves of French bread stuffed into a paper that was infinitely too small, their young children running ahead of the parents. He even saw individual men and women, dressed immaculately as if they were models on a runway, rushing to catch a taxi or the metro. It was a hectic city and screamed busy, but Valentine found the sight beautiful, enjoyable. Back in Alicante, you would never see anyone rushing about like this. Everyone was so disciplined, so _non_-human that they never had the need to rush.

Valentine walked down several blocks of new, modern looking buildings, always looking into the windows to see what was on display. Most of the time, he saw clothes, but there were the occasional jewellery stores. He pushed his left hand down into his pocket the way he had earlier and run his right hand through his hair. He didn't need to be in this part of town, especially not when he didn't have enough money on his person to get his mother a gift. Still, he continued to walk—and walk and walk and walk, and he passed a corner. He then doubled back quite suddenly, nearly running into the woman walking not too far behind him. She took a step back before side-stepping to avoid this tall, fair-haired figure as he passed by her.

He turned the corner, and saw a book store only a few feet away from him. He glanced at his watch, noting that it was only ten minutes to four. He had plenty of time before he had to return to the Institute. Deciding in half a second that he would spend the rest of that time in that quaint little bookstore, Valentine strode over to it. If he was lucky, he'd actually be able to find a good book and occupy himself doing something useful instead of idling away his time in the city.

The bell above the door made a tinkling sound as he pushed it open. From behind the counter, a shaggy-haired, bearded man looked at him through his glasses and smiled, books littering the counter. Valentine gave a small nod as a sign of acknowledgement and instantly set himself to looking for the literature section. It was a small, one-storey store; the walls were lined with ceiling-to-floor green shelves. Bean bags were scattered next to every shelf, clearly a sign that he could sit in here for as long as he wanted. As long as he bought something. The shelves were packed with books of all sizes which were arranged in no particular order, providing him with a feeling as though he were in someone's house, and as he walked by them, the words on the spines of the books seemed to blur when he looked at them. There were far too many books. Along the middle of the walkway were tables that had been set up to display specific books. They were stacked artfully atop each other, resembling a brick wall as it circled around the book in the middle, the one that was supposed to attract the customer's attention.

His footsteps were heard against the wood of the shop's floor as he continued his search for the literature section. As he walked down the length of the shop, certain books jumped out at him such as Shakespeare's Othello and Dante's Inferno, both of which he hadn't read in years. He was tempted to reach out and pull them out of the shelves, but decided not to. He knew Dante's Inferno by heart and would probably end up quoting lines from the book as opposed to actually reading it. As for Othello—well, twice is quite enough times.

Despite having walked through the whole shop, he couldn't find the literature section. He pursed his lips and rounded a table to get to the door when a bright yellow sign caught his eye. Crudely written onto the yellow board with pink marker were the words LATEST RELEASE. He followed the downward arrow towards a stack of books, his eyes catching the title of the book immediately. Of Angels and Men. He picked it up and flipped it over to read the synopsis. The synopsis hadn't been all that interesting, but there was something about the cover that made it impossible for Valentine to release the book. It depicted an angel—or at least what mundanes thought angels looked like—rising up to a dark sky with a woman holding onto him.

She was smiling.

Valentine grabbed an unwrapped copy of the book and went to the back of the store, as far away from prying eyes as he could. He lowered himself down onto a red bean bag and leaned against the wall. He opened the book gently, his pianist fingers lingering on the image of the angel and the woman even as he began to read. Just as he got to the fifth page, however, the bell tinkled once more and although he was engrossed in the book, his head snapped up to see who had entered.

It was a girl who looked about his age. She had wavy brown hair the colour of dark chocolate and it tumbled down her shoulders freely, a sight which his eyes hadn't beheld since he enrolled in the Academy. She was wearing jeans and a flowy white top which danced about her as she walked towards where he was. He must've been staring because she looked right at him. He wanted to instantly tear his gaze away, but couldn't. To anyone else, she must've looked fine. This was proven by the fact that the man behind the counter hadn't done a double take when she walked in through the door. If anyone else had seen what he saw, they would not take their eyes off her.

Her eyes held fear in them. Even now, as she looked at him, the very picture of calm and protection, the fear and worry in her eyes had not faded. She swallowed before her lips curved up into a smile—and he decided that her problems were hers, whatever they were. He shouldn't have to burden himself with mundane problems. He nodded, another small one, just as he had to the man before her. When she turned towards the self-help shelf, Valentine took his eyes off her and returned to his book.

He didn't know how long he sat there, his eyes taking in the words the book contained. He was vaguely aware of the fact that although he was now at page two hundred and eighty-nine, the bell hadn't rung another time, which meant that the mundane girl was still in here. "Hmm," he said, as he read the name Abaddon. Abaddon was the name of a fallen angel of death, a demon, whose name meant 'to destroy'. He continued to read the book. Despite the use of Abaddon as the remarkably gorgeous, raven-haired villain, it really was a good book and he wanted to shake away all the doubts creeping into his mind. It was just a book. Nothing more than that. However, he could no longer concentrate on the book. He knew that demon-worshipping cults existed in the world. What if the writer of this book was himself a worshipper? After all, the protagonist was an angel who had defied God's will, the worst deed that could ever be committed.

He put the book down to close his eyes and slow down his train of thought just as he heard someone speak, shielded from view by a towering bookshelf. "Oh, God," she said, and at that sound, Valentine's eyes opened, his posture going rigid as his eyes instantly trained onto the bookshelf. He'd heard that voice before. Last night, to be precise. And it had the same desperation and fear entwined in it.

Valentine got up from the bean bag, the book falling off of his lap as he abruptly stood up. He started towards the direction of the voice, but before he could get close to it, the girl—the one who had entered after him—crawled away from her original position. The Shadowhunter could not believe his eyes. What could've been so terrifying in the book store that she couldn't even gather the strength to stand up and walk away?

The girl got up to her feet and bolted for the door, crashing into it, the weight of her body pushing it open. Through the corner of his eye, he could see the man behind the counter get up and move towards the door, pushing it open as he shouted a stream of French curses at the dashing girl. As he bent down to pick up the book she'd left, he could hear the man muttering something about her not even buying anything before cursing all tourists in general. Valentine shook his head and shut the book to look at the front cover.

Demonic Possession.

The sharp intake of breath was evident to his ears, just as shock was evident to his body. His hands suddenly went weak and he dropped the book. He recalled the way she had banged on the Institute's doors last night, and how she'd begged for them to be opened. He remembered how scared she sounded, how desperate she had been to enter and get away from whatever it was that she was afraid of. And you hadn't opened the god damned door, he thought not too kindly to himself.

He had to find her.

He was already moving and running towards the door faster than a mundane could blink. He reached into one of the pockets in his pants and threw three francs onto the counter before grabbing a lollipop and pushing through the door, pure gut-feeling telling him to run to the right. It was what he would've done. It was what he'd always done. When he was being pursued and his mind couldn't form a coherent thought on where he should escape to, he would always run to the right.

Using his injured left hand, Valentine shoved the offending pink lollipop into his jacket, his adrenaline eclipsing the pain that had shot through his wrist. The sky ahead, he could see, had a light orange tinge to it, a sure sign that it was nearing dusk. He _should_ be getting back to the Institute. Madame Lambert would have his head if he wasn't back before dark, what with his demon-slaying activity last night.

But he kept running toward nowhere in particular, his need to find her fuelled by what she had so desperately uttered last night. _"They're coming to get me."_ That was the only thing he seemed to be capable of thinking. That, and the title of the book he'd seen on the floor earlier.

Demonic Possession.


	6. Chapter Five

**A/N: It is 3.01 a.m. right now and heaven knows I'm sleepy. xDD First off, I would like to apologize for not updating in FOREVUH! I was suffering through exams and when our two week break did start, I went off to a camp for a whole week and then went back to my hometown for almost a week. This chapter was a little hard to write in the beginning, but as I went on, it became easier and easier and I actually started enjoying myself. I thought that, after four chapters, the Valentine that we all know and don't really like (I'm not about to say hate because I actually like him) should make an appearance. I don't know if I managed to do that, but here's to hoping that I did. So, uh…R&R?**

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He stood now in front of the same bookstore he'd been in earlier today, in front of the exact same door he'd gone through in a bid to keep himself busy while he waited for the sun to venture into dusk. He remembered how the bell had tinkled as he opened the door and how it had tinkled again as it closed. He remembered how the bearded man behind the counter had looked at him as he walked in. He remembered how he had seen the fear in the girl's eyes—and how he'd simply pushed it away as mere mundane problems that he didn't need to bother himself with.

Looking into the store through the massive windows, Valentine wished now that he could go in and retrieve the book she'd dropped in her hurry to escape. He turned away from the window, leaning against it. He could no longer stand the war waging within him. He wanted to go in and look at the book, maybe sweep around the place to find a clue—any type of clue. He couldn't accept that this was something he had absolutely no idea about. Try as he may, he couldn't even begin to formulate a thought as to what may be troubling the girl.

_The girl_. He hated that he called her that. She was a person, just as he was. Surely she had a name. If he'd opened the doors to her last night, he wouldn't have to continue calling her the girl. But then again, had he allowed her into the Institute last night, she would not have been in the bookstore and she would not have run away as if the Angel of Death himself was hot on her heels. She wouldn't have been afraid and he would've been able to help her. Instead, he had roamed the dirty back streets of Paris, a place that tourists didn't know about, for three whole hours, running for a better part of that period of time.

His legs felt tired now and he thought he could just collapse onto the ground as he had when he'd returned to the Institute last night. There was something about being around people, though, that made him keep himself standing upright. No one could see how tired he was. They'd think less of him.

He pulled his sleeve up just a little bit and peered at the face of his watch. It was past ten in the evening. He had to start making his way back to the Institute and pack up his things. He was going back to Alicante tomorrow along with the many other students who had joined them on this school field trip to Paris.

Just as he took his first step, though, a can flew right past him, missing him by only a few centimeters. He stopped dead in his tracks, watching the can fly through the air and hearing the sound of aluminium against stone as it landed on the cobbled street. He turned his head just a little towards the origin of the can, his eyes adjusting to the poorly lit narrow street. He'd expected to see a man or even a gang of men staring him down, thinking he was just like the rest of the tourists who could so easily be mugged. He had been prepared to fight them, too, but when his gaze fell upon the figure in the shadows, all thoughts of using mild force to hurt him escaped his mind. What was before him was no man, it was a faerie.

Instinct kicked in and Valentine reached towards the waist band of his pants, towards the strap that held his stele. You can't kill the faerie, he reminded himself. But, just because he couldn't kill him, didn't mean that he had to trust him. He took a step towards the faerie, and then another and another and before long, he was a mere three feet away from him. This close, the faerie was no longer hidden from his view and he could see him clearly now. He looked just like a human actually. Or almost like a human. His skin was pale—death pale—and his hair was a pale shade of blond, one that made it look almost white, actually. His hand—the one that wasn't gripping his stele tightly—went to his own hair.

He would've passed as a mundane to Valentine if it hadn't been for the silver patterns that adorned all of his face and ran up his arms, disappearing when they met the sleeves of his clothing. And his eyes. They were yellow, his pupils pitch black and thin. As he looked into them, Valentine was reminded of a snake. With that thought, he took an involuntary step back. The faerie smiled at Valentine's reaction to him, baring his pearl-white teeth. Caution crept into Valentine's person as he convinced himself not to make another move to get away from this creature. Despite the silence between them, Valentine could feel that he was being mocked. That one step he'd taken away from the faerie had made him less of a Shadowhunter and he hated himself for doing it.

"I have news for you, child of the Angel," he said, his voice velvety and soothing. "News that you would delight in, I am certain."

Valentine withdrew his hand from his stele, letting it drop to his side. "I need nor want nothing from you, faerie," he said. He wanted nothing to do with their kind. He knew of them and their games. He'd learnt of how they played with people, manipulated them for their own enjoyment. And he knew he had to get away, get back to the Institute. He began to turn away from the faerie. He had to get back now before the faerie managed to hold him in his grasp.

"Oh, but I think you will like what I have to tell you," he heard the faerie say. He gave a small shake of his head as he began to walk away from the faerie, hoping that he would see the motion. He couldn't get into this. The longer he stayed where he was, the bigger the chance for the faerie to begin weaving his little game all around him and he wouldn't be able to leave. However, the faerie wasn't about to let him leave without getting what he wanted out of the Shadowhunter. "It involves that girl you were looking for."

Valentine stopped so suddenly that he thought he'd slammed into himself. His hand immediately went back to his stele only this time, instead of letting it stay in its strap, he withdrew it and turned onto the faerie, anger coursing through his veins. No one was supposed to know about the girl, and having a faerie know about her was a hundred times worse. He would not allow her to be used in this faerie's games. He advanced toward the Downworlder, stele at the ready. It would be the easiest thing to drive the weapon into the faerie. He would take pleasure in seeing the life drain away from the faerie, the sparkle that was dancing in his eyes right now leaving along with his breath.

But he couldn't do that. Killing a Downworlder would spell trouble for him, not only in Paris but also in Alicante. The Clave would be furious with him. The Circle was only in its early stages. If he were to be threatened by the Clave, there wouldn't be much that he or the Circle members could do. He couldn't risk the Circle being eradicated. He kept his stele up, poised towards the faerie. He didn't want him to forget that he was, first and foremost, a Shadowhunter and he wasn't one that the faerie wanted to play with. "What about her?"

The faerie laughed, his snake eyes twinkling as he watched Valentine's face. Valentine felt like the faerie could see something inside him that even he didn't know about, and he swallowed at the thought of it. "Listen carefully, my little Shadowhunter, and listen well," he said, moving around Valentine until it was directly behind him, leaning towards the Shadowhunter so that his lips were just a hair-breadth away from Valentine's ear. "A hero she will need and so he comes with pride and zeal. Their advice he will not heed, till her light he did steal."

Valentine whipped his head around to look at the faerie, to demand him to speak what he meant, what he'd sought him out for. When he turned around, though, the faerie was gone. He turned his whole body around to face the space the faerie had been mere seconds earlier, the street painfully devoid of any figure, be it human or Downworlder. Before he could stop himself, he heard himself yell, "Faerie!" He spun frantically, his eyes searching the street for any sign of the faerie. "Faerie!"

A laugh, one that made ice travel up his spine, was all he heard.

He didn't know how long he stood there, hoping that the faerie would return, that they would be able to carry on their conversation and that he'd be able to learn more about the girl, about what the faerie knew about her. A light breeze that blew past was what finally convinced him to make his way back to the Institute, just as he had intended earlier. When the wind blew his hair into his face, he pushed it back in one exasperated motion and decided that going back to the Institute was the only thing he could do now. So he moved away from the spot he'd been glued to during his encounter with the faerie and retraced the route he'd taken in the afternoon which had brought him here.

Sure enough, he came across the exact same shops he'd seen when he had been wandering aimlessly about the city for something to do. He passed by the jewellery store he'd seen earlier. There was a woman inside, her fair face gaunt as she watched the salesman retrieve the necklace her husband had asked to see. He frowned when he saw her folding her hands uncomfortably in her lap. Perhaps she didn't want to be there?

She looked out the window then, and saw him looking at her. For a second, his vision was blurred, as if it wasn't used to the bright lights of the city. After that moment had passed, however, the inky scrawl on her neck jumped out at him. In the next moment, he recognized it for what it really was—a rune. The gasp that escaped his lips then was something he couldn't avoid, and when she smiled at him, seeing him as her kinsman, his lips wouldn't turn up to return her smile. She seemed to notice this and turned her attention back to the man who was now holding a necklace in his hands.

He walked back to the Institute, his pace faster than what he would've liked. He made it back to the imposing structure in half the time it had taken him to walk away from it. He placed his hands onto the surface of the heavy doors and pushed. They opened instantly, swinging wide open and he strode in. Stephen Herondale appeared at his side in a heartbeat and began to fill him in on what had transpired while he was away from the Institute. He tried listening to the boy, but his mind was miles away, remaining in that darkened street with the faerie, focusing on what he had said. It wasn't until he heard the words Maryse and fear in one sentence that his focus suddenly shifted onto Stephen.

In seconds, he was moving towards the common room, the one place that Circle members gathered in at the Paris Institute. He maneuvered his way around the hallways as if he'd been living there for years and found himself facing the door to the common room in a matter of minutes. He didn't just push the door, he threw his whole weight against it and it _flew_ open. He burst into the room on steady feet and immediately set himself to looking for Maryse. He spotted her soon enough, his eyes trained on her, studying every plane of her face and it was made evident to him instantly that she truly was afraid.

Another Circle member—Michael Wayland—started walking towards Valentine, but the leader paid him no mind. He moved in Maryse's direction and then sank to his knees before her, taking her hands in his. "What happened?" He posed it in the form of a question, but she knew better. It was a command from their leader and she couldn't refuse it.

"I'd spent a lot of time at the Louvre and when I'd come out it was getting dark. Normally, I wouldn't venture into the back alleys of Paris, but I thought that Madame Lambert would have my head if I came back after dark. I had no other choice but to go down this alley way. It's a shortcut to the Institute. I've never been comfortable with going down there, but I was in a hurry." Tears spilled down her cheeks and she made no move to wipe them away. But then she looked up at Valentine, at the face of their perfect, perfect leader and she saw the hardness in his eyes, the displeasure in his face—and she immediately wiped her tears away with the back of her hand. "There was a girl a few feet in front of me. Her shoulders were hunched and her head was down, and she was moving really quickly. And then suddenly, she just put her hands to her ears, and begged to be left alone. That was when I heard footsteps behind me and I turned around. There was a figure in black behind me, his face shielded by the hood he had on."

In the background, Valentine could hear the television presenting some news or another of a fire in the south of France, but he couldn't have cared any less. Maryse had his full attention. "He stopped so suddenly. It was like he hadn't expected me to see him. I took my seraph blade out, but before I could even say its name, he rushed towards me and sent me crashing onto the ground. I didn't even think about the girl. All I knew was that this person wasn't human and that I had to fight it. I got up and said my seraph blade's name and then began attacking the man. But he was so good, Valentine," she searched his face imploringly, searched for any sign of pity. She found nothing. "Something shot out and it hit me and then I couldn't move. I tried my hardest, but it was like there was something holding me down. Then he walked past me and he said, 'I don't want you, Shadowhunter. I want the girl.'"

"The girl?" Valentine suddenly said. Hearing Maryse saying that, his mind began reeling at the possibilities of the girl being _her_. "He said he wanted the girl?"

Maryse nodded, chewing on her lower lip. "He said that she was the prize and that no one, not Shadowhunters, not Angels, could stop him from getting her." Valentine began to get up and release the frightened girl's hands, but then she suddenly grabbed at them. He levelled a glare at her, but she seemed not to notice it and said, "But I didn't hear him say it. It was…he spoke in my mind. His voice was _in my mind_."

Valentine felt like stumbling back. The only thing keeping him from doing so was the fact that his Circle members were around him and he didn't want them to see him like that. Perhaps it was her. Maybe this was what had been bothering her, what she'd been running away from. It could be any girl, Valentine, he thought to himself. He knew his mind was right. It didn't necessarily have to be her. "But she'd covered her ears," he said so softly that only he could hear. He began to think logically again, though, and as before, he knew that it could have been someone else. Not everyone disturbed had to be her.

But then Maryse suddenly pointed to something behind him. He turned around just as he heard her say, "Her hair looks exactly like that. _Exactly_ like that."

He looked at the picture of the girl in the television, her eyes closed, a tube running from the drip and into her arm. Despite the fact that he'd seen her only briefly, he recognized her as quickly as if he'd known her his whole life. "_The girl_," he said aloud.

Almost in unison, all the Circle members turned their faces toward him and everything was silent then as they watched their leader carefully, the only sound in the room coming from the television as the anchor continued with the news, speaking of the girl. He listened intently, ignoring the questioning look on all the Circle members' faces. He was hoping that he'd find out her name from the news, but it was revealed not a second after that thought came to him that there had been no ID on her. The next thing that appeared on the television's screen was the face of a man as he said, quite forcefully and pointedly, that the girl had appeared out of nowhere and he hadn't been able to hit the breaks in time to avoid crashing into her. "Anyone who has any information on this girl or her next of kin, please contact the number stated below," a number appeared at the bottom of the screen then and Valentine tried to think of his next course of action, "or come by Hôpital Cochin."

All thoughts of numbers left his mind as he looked at the name of the hospital, not being able to tear his eyes away from it. He knew then what he would do. He would go down to that hospital and he would find her and he would take her away. It was only after he'd made this decision that he addressed his Circle members. "I ask that all of you pay attention to what I have to say and keep it alive in your minds and hearts because I will not repeat myself on this matter." Every single member of the Circle turned to face him fully, knowing for a fact that their leader did not say anything without a cause behind it. "We will go down to the hospital and we will take her away with us."

Shock passed through all their faces, but none of them said anything. He gave them a sharp nod and was about to give his next orders when he heard a voice reprimand him, a voice he was very familiar with. Michael's. "That's stupid and you know it as well as I do," he said, his posture defiant, his eyes dancing with a challenge. He was daring him to do something about it.

Valentine, however, didn't take too kindly to people defying him and he was before the boy faster than anyone could exhale a breath, his hand holding his upper arm in a vice-like grip, his eyes betraying the anger that he could not hide. It took everything he had within him to keep from throwing Michael Wayland against the wall. A pain began to form in Michael's upper arm and he threw pleading looks at everyone in the room. Not one of them moved a muscle, the room so silent that Valentine was certain they were holding their breaths. "Do not go against my word, Michael," he said through gritted teeth. "I don't particularly like people who don't know how to take orders."

He watched as Michael's pupils grew bigger and he recognized that movement. Fear. Despite all his anger channeled towards that one Circle member, despite the feelings from deep inside him that were pushing him to beat Michael to a bloody pulp and make an example out of him, Valentine released the boy's upper arm from his grip. Michael stumbled and had to brace himself against a chair to keep himself from falling. "I want the girl with us before we return to Alicante," he said, addressing the Circle as a whole once more. He saw the looks of confusion upon the faces of his Circle members. Battling demons was one thing, but kidnapping a mundane girl was something else entirely. "I don't want any protests."

He knew they wanted to look at Michael, but out of respect—and perhaps fear—of this tall, determined fighter before them, they kept their eyes trained on him. And then Jocelyn spoke up. "How will we get in? How will we take her with us? You know how mundanes are. They'll release her only to the next of kin."

"Then I will pretend to be her brother," he said drily, raising one eyebrow. He knew _exactly_ how mundanes were.

She shook her head. "But you don't even know her name. How are you to impersonate her next of kin when you know nothing about her?"

That struck Valentine as sharply as if someone had thrown a rock to the back of his head. Jocelyn was right. He knew not the smallest thing about her. They wouldn't believe him if he said he was her brother. He didn't have a single thing to prove to them that he was who he claimed to be. This was not a well thought-out plan at all, he realized. Maybe he would have to give up this mad scheme. Besides, once he had her with him, what would he do with her? Take her back to Alicante? Hide her in his home, where his mother was?

But then her face flashed before him and he saw that frightened look on her face once more. She needed someone to help her and he had a feeling that no one would know what was happening to her, no one would be able to help her, to keep her safe but him. But, by the Angel, that one little fact that hindered his plan was clawing at him. How would he get her?

"It's not like we can charm our way in," Lucian said, his voice laced with a hint of laughter as the words left his lips. "We're Shadowhunters. We don't have that sort of ability." Valentine turned to look at him, wanting to know if Lucian was going anywhere with this. "Only vampires can do that. We learned about it in school."

And that was when Valentine heard himself say the one thing he never thought he'd ever hear himself say—"It seems that we are about to embark upon a vampire hunt."


	7. Chapter Six

**A/N: So, so, so sleepy. Again, it's almost 3 a.m. right now where I'm from. The first day of school after a two week holiday happened today and I'd received some of my examination papers. Three of them, to be precise, and I'd gotten great marks for all three papers. I suppose I wrote this chapter because I was happy and wanted to celebrate. xDD At first, this was super fun to write, but then as it progressed, I started needing to force myself a little to get the words out. Something about it doesn't feel right to me, but I'm hoping it's not too bad. Oh, and a very special shout out to icyfirelove3 for being such an awesome new reader. Seriously, you make me smile. (=**

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"I have a feeling that you didn't really think this through, Valentine," Stephen said from behind him.

It pained him to acknowledge the fact that he might have done something wrong this time, but Valentine knew it to be the truth and felt the blood rushing to his cheeks. His embarrassment would forever remain engraved into their memories if he didn't think of a plan in the next few minutes. Without looking at his watch, he knew that midnight had already arrived. They'd left the Institute at some time past eleven and judging by how tired the Circle members looked, he guessed that they'd been walking around the streets of Paris for at least an hour. Perhaps more.

This situation wasn't good at all, he realized. They were leaving for Alicante at first light tomorrow, meaning that as soon as the sun had begun to peek out from between the clouds, they would begin to disappear from Paris. It also meant that he didn't have much time before the Circle members truly started to tire and yearn for their beds. They wouldn't speak out against him, he knew—not after what Michael had brushed with in the common room—but exhausted and sleepy, they wouldn't be of much use to him.

He surveyed the club across the street, his eyes scanning the perimeter of the building even as the lights were flashing blindingly in his face. At least three people were entering the club every few minutes that passed, but none of them seemed to come out. No one was exiting through an alternate door either which gave Valentine the impression that there was only one way in and out. Having that knowledge did nothing to make him feel better. If anything, knowing that one bit of information was eating away at him, only posing new problems for him to solve.

But, by God, every club had at least two doors. Heaven knows he's graced enough of the exact same venues in Alicante, and each and every one of them had an alternate door if not two. There was simply no way any manager—any owner, for that matter, would allow heavy pieces of equipment to be carted out through the front door, where all his clients were. No one wanted to see those things. They wanted to think that the DJ was playing the music as if by magic, drunk as they are.

Nothing—not person nor object—had left the vicinity, he was certain, but there had to be another door. If there wasn't, then obviously, this was the absolute worst place to try to search for a vampire.

He took a step closer to the road that kept him and the club apart, beckoning for two Circle members to follow him with an authoritative crook of his fingers. Within a second, he heard two different sets of footsteps trailing him as he crossed the road. Making his way into the poorly lit alley that divided the club from the building next to it, Valentine took hold of the witch light he'd had in his pocket—his _left_ pocket. He'd been careful to slip his hand as gently as he could into his jacket's pocket in order to retrieve the witch light, but when he'd wrapped his fingers around it and pulled his hand out, the tenderness with which he treated his injured hand had left. He'd yanked it out just like that and now a searing pain was being an ever present accessory about his wrist.

He winced, too slow to bite it off.

The two Circle members who'd followed him seemed to hear the admission of pain—despite it being barely audible. "Are you alright?" he heard Robert ask.

Valentine moved his head a little, just enough to see the boy behind him through the corner of his eye. "Take the right side of the building, Robert," he said to the boy, his head jerking toward his right. He then pointed at the boy next to Robert, sending him scurrying to search the left side of the building that housed the club with one motion of his finger. Robert was long gone before the boy had started moving and that left Valentine to walk to the back of the building.

His steps were almost silent as he walked swiftly through the alley. Inside him, he felt his heart beating wildly. It wasn't fear, though. He'd experienced this sudden rush of adrenaline more often than anyone in the Academy had. He was getting excited. Although this hunt wasn't like the ones he usually set out for back in Alicante, something about it thrilled him to no end. He could already see himself pinning the vampire down upon the ground as the Circle members looked at him in awe and surely that was the best part of any victory. They'd look up to him even more than they already did and remaining loyal, recognizing him as their leader and savior wouldn't be much of a problem for them.

He held his witch light out before his face, his eyes quickly adapting to the sudden burst of light. It didn't take him long to find the door he'd been certain existed and his reaction as he saw it being opened happened within an eighth of the time it had taken him to locate the door. He thrust his witch light harshly back into his pocket, this time completely ignoring the pain in his wrist as it was pushed into a pocket that was smaller than it and then pulled out just as roughly.

His eyes went down the length of the wall and he spotted a steel ladder several feet off the ground not too far away from where he was. His Shadowhunter training kicking in, Valentine fled from his spot closer to the door and when he was near enough, he launched himself toward the ladder. His hands caught the bottom step easily, his left hand aching at the exertion. The sheer force his jump had caused sent him swinging forward and Valentine took the opportunity to fling himself upward, his hands breaking free of the first step as he pivoted in mid-air. He then hooked his legs onto what he thought was the fifth step and pulled himself up into a sitting position, his hands automatically resuming their hold on the step above him. Within the next moment, he had quite uncomfortably gotten onto his feet and began climbing up the ladder, getting away from prying eyes.

The movements he'd made were quiet and he moved even quieter still up the ladder. Before long, he was on the roof and looking down at the trio below, two of them pushing two boxes of massive size down the alley. He couldn't hear them clearly. In fact, he had to put himself halfway off the roof to hear them and even then, his ears still had to strain to hear what they were saying. It seemed that the roof had been higher up than he'd thought.

Polish was the language they spoke. His command of the language wasn't as good as he'd like it to be, but he thought he'd heard the words remarkably beautiful and cold. He felt his lips turn upwards as a smile began to creep onto them. His logic was failing him today, not even putting up a fight to his gut's proclamation that the woman in there was a vampire.

A big, burly-looking man burst through the doors then and began shouting for the trio who were headed for the road. He was saying something, but again, it was in Polish and Valentine gave up on understanding them, focusing instead on the build of the man. He was tall—perhaps taller than even Valentine—and his shoulders were broad. Muscles adorned his upper arms and underneath him, his legs looked to be strong and all too ready to deliver a fracture-inducing kick.

I'd be able to fight him and win, he thought to himself. After all, he hadn't trained to be a Shadowhunter only to be fell by a mundane. He could overpower him faster than the man could blink and when he did blink, he wouldn't be able to open his eyes. He'd have been knocked out cold. Then Valentine could call for the rest of the Circle members and they could enter the club, guns ablaze and everything and look for the vampire woman.

Except that fighting would take too much time and time was not something he had to spare. It had to be past midnight now and he wanted the girl with him before the clock struck two in the morning. So he got up, his person seething with fury at the thought that he'd come all this way, put his sprained wrist through hell to climb up here and discovered that there was indeed a vampire inside and he'd not be able to do anything about it. He turned around to begin his pacing back and forth—and he saw the black square shape which stood in stark contrast to the red of the brick building. He slipped his shoes off and rushed towards it. He bent down to examine it a little more closely and decided that if it was what he thought it was, then he'd just found another way in. He wrapped his fingers upon the handle and tugged. It opened at the first try and from it, the sounds of music escaped.

This time, the smile that tugged at his lips was a full-fledged one.

He quickly strode over to the other side of the roof, the one that faced the road opposite it where his Circle members were waiting. He didn't crouch down when he got to the edge of the roof, wasn't afraid that someone might see him. Instead, all six feet of him stood against the backdrop of the night as he threw his witch light in Jocelyn's direction. It landed right at her feet, just as he'd wanted, and she looked up to where he was. He turned away, his eyes still trained on her and with a move of his head, she got everyone's attention and took them to the back of the building where their leader was waiting.

Valentine's feet—now once again in his shoes—touched the ground just as the very first of the Circle members arrived. "There is an entrance through there," he began, pointing in the direction of the back door without even sparing a glance at the members of his Circle, without offering them even a hint as to what he'd learned. "Stephen, choose your brothers in arms and move around to the front. There is an apartment complex under construction not too far away from here. You will await us there. And, Jocelyn, you will stay here with the remaining members and stand guard." His eyes were alight with the thrill of the hunt, his heart beginning to race inside his chest once again as he explained his plan to the Circle. "I plan to push her out through the front and chase her all the way to Stephen, but if she decides to run out the back, I need you to be prepared for battle."

As if only just now realizing what he'd said to them, Valentine turned towards his Circle members, addressing them. They were only students at the Academy and they could count the demons they'd killed with only one hand. He felt as though he should give them fair warning. "You must all remember that the one we are hunting now is no demon. She is a vampire and she will put up a fight. I have not the slightest idea how old she is, who she might be, but I ask that you put your trust in me."

He looked now at each and every one of their faces. They were still students and they were foolish enough to not feel fear, and that suited Valentine just fine. That was exactly what he needed from them. What he saw in their faces now was sparkling admiration for their leader. "Have I ever failed you before?" he asked them now.

They replied together, firmly, as if they'd rehearsed it for nights. "No."

"Then trust in me and we will walk out of this as true Shadowhunters." His words, as he spoke them, seemed to ignite their spirits and the admiration that had been upon every plane of their faces not a minute ago was replaced by determination and a belief that the Shadowhunting world's golden boy could turn them into better versions of themselves, into better fighters.

Not one of them thought to question him about the purpose of their doing this, the purpose of taking the girl from the hospital.

Valentine called the names of two boys from his senior combat classes. They stepped forward, hand already at their seraph blade. The minute he started climbing up the ladder, everyone else moved into their positions, Jocelyn and her group standing in their battle stances as Stephen and his own made their way to the apartment complex. Up on the roof, Valentine didn't wait for his two chosen companions to catch up to him before he let himself drop into the entrance.

His shoes met with the marble floor of a toilet, the faintest of clicks echoing through the room. He got up and began to make his way to the door, hearing one thud behind him and then almost directly after that, another one. He rested his hand on the doorknob, turning back to look at the two boys behind him. They nodded in response to his looking at them, and he, once again, turned his face toward the door, pushed down the doorknob and pulled the door open.

The music he'd heard earlier up on the roof and in the restroom paled in comparison to the screeching sound that blasted out of the sound system. His hands itched to go up to his ears and shield them from the horrible noise, but he could not let himself do that. He had to look normal. Once more, he turned to look at the boys behind him to see if they had covered their ears. Thankfully, they had not, although they did have a look of extreme displease upon their faces. As before, he turned away from them, signalling them with his hands to break up but stay close by in the case of the plan unraveling at the seams.

He didn't look back this time to see if they had followed his orders. He focused instead all of his senses towards locating the vampire woman. Lights of all colours danced upon his white-blond hair, standing out very, very obviously against the black of his clothing. To his right, he heard a giggle, one that sounded more like the tinkling of bells than anything else. Suspicious, he turned to his right to ascertain that that giggle hadn't originated from the vampire woman.

Looking now, though, he didn't have the need to do that any longer because the woman who'd giggled was only a girl—a vampire girl. He moved toward her, his muscles turning tense in an instant. When she spoke, he became even tenser. "Look at you in that dark clothing," she said, her eyes shamelessly roaming his person.

Valentine put on his best smile and brought himself ever closer to her. She was standing against a wall, giving him a close-lipped smile. So she's a young one, he thought. There was no other explanation for her catching his attention and beckoning him over to her. Despite his battle clothing, she had not recognized him as a Shadowhunter. She also hadn't yet learned how to retract her fangs properly and keep them hidden, otherwise she would've bared all her teeth to him. He placed a hand onto the wall behind her and leaned in closer to her.

She giggled and put a hand to his chest. "Its colour is so much more different than your hair, than your skin, yet it somehow suits you," she said, her hand moving up to touch his hair. "It suits tonight."

"Would you let me buy you a drink, Miss…?"

"Daxeny. But you may call me Claire," she said, looking deep into his eyes. "And I won't let you buy me a drink. I can't stand those things. They make me retch."

He had to remind himself not to smile wider as he listened to her words. Claire had just presented to him more proof that she was a vampire, and he knew what he had to do next. Valentine took her hand and led her away from the looks others were giving, into a secluded corner, and then slipped his arms around her waist, holding her close to him as he led her to move to the beat of the music. She giggled again—that same tinkling sound—and they stayed that way for quite some time, Valentine trying his best to keep himself relaxed. He couldn't take her now, in front of all these people. His hands around her waist tightened and he pulled her closer to him and didn't stop until he could feel her against his body. Then, he brushed the softest of kisses on her cheek, all the way to her ear, where he stopped and said, "Perhaps you'd want to take this somewhere else? A place with less people."

Both her hands went up to his chest, pushing him coyly away. She was just about to smile at him, maybe say something flirtatious, when her eyes zeroed in on something on his arm. Valentine was filled with apprehension almost instantly, seeing the knowledge of something unfolding within her eyes. The hands on her waist went to her back and he held her tight. That was when she bared her fangs at him and hissed, pushing against him.

For a split second, Valentine felt himself flying backwards. His legs were no longer underneath him, keeping him somewhat on the ground. So strong had she been, she'd flung him back to a point where his legs had lifted from the floor and he truly was flying through the air. His back collided with a wall and for a moment, it felt like it was about to crumble from the force of their collision. Pain flared in his back, spreading like a network of streams until the ache was almost too much to bear, but he was up and standing steadily again in the next second. He saw her running towards the front entrance, keeping to a human pace so as to not alarm the mundanes around them.

So she wasn't quite so inexperienced, after all.

The second thing his eyes caught was one of his companions going after her. He was alone, though, so Valentine knew that the other boy had remembered his orders and gone around the back to tell Jocelyn to meet up with Stephen. He was about to take his first step to initiate his chase, but was stopped when an impossibly muscular man quite suddenly showed up before him. "What was going on with the lady?" he asked, his voice laced with suspicion and a fierceness he thought could scare the Shadowhunter. "She just suddenly took off."

"Lover's quarrel," Valentine said. He was about to elaborate more. That was, until he glimpsed the man's watch at the very least. It was almost a quarter to one. He looked at the man again and then said, to reassure him, "Lover's quarrel."

The man wasn't satisfied with that and made a move to grab a hold of him just as Valentine began evading this big obstacle in his way. "I should go find her now. Apologize." And with that, he was bounding out of the club.

He exited the club, the cold winter air greeting him as one would a dear friend. He broke into a run in the direction of the construction project and all the while, his hand was on the seraph blade he kept strapped to his waist. As his legs carried him to his destination, ever determined, the ground underneath him seemed to move faster and faster. In minutes, he was met with the eerie looking apartment complex and the scene of a battle on what was supposed to be the driveway—and it looked to him that his Circle members were losing to that one vampire girl.

For the second time that night, Valentine slipped his shoes off and made his way toward the other side of the apartment complex, far away from the fight. He sized up the walls that surrounded the structure. It had to be at least eight feet tall. He wouldn't be able to make the jump.

Valentine began to move away from the wall, backtracking towards the scene of the fight when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a tree. He calculated the distance in his mind, approximating it to be five feet away from him. If he moved back just a little from where he was now—"Stop thinking and run," he said to himself, exasperated to the maximum. So he stopped thinking and he started running.

The tree, in his line of vision, got closer and closer and closer. When he was half a feet away from the plant, he jumped, launching himself feet first towards it. When he felt the solid bark of the tree under his feet, he had but a second to launch himself from there and onto the wall. That one second was all he needed. His feet propelled him from the tree, acting like a spring, and then came into contact with the wall. He stretched his arms out and pushed himself up from where his feet had touched, slammed his hands down onto the flat top of the wall, his hands bearing the weight of his whole body as he thrust himself up into the air and landed soundlessly on the ground, his six foot frame crammed into a crouch.

"Where the hell is Valentine?" he heard someone yell, and shortly after that, from someone else, "We should just go. He's left us to die."

Valentine got up from his crouching position and started running for the apartment complex. Left them to die? What kind of a man did they think he was? An anger began to build inside him even as he ran in order to execute his plan in a bid to help the members of his Circle. They thought he left them to die? They should know better than that.

"No! We know better than that," Jocelyn cried. "He wouldn't leave us. He's coming. He—"

She was broken off by a scream from the vampire girl. She was furious now and she wanted to hurt them all. No, she'd wanted to hurt them all since she'd first encountered them. Now, she wanted to kill them. All of them.

Valentine made himself run faster. He saw a door that would lead him inside the building and had half a mind to crash through it, break it down. But that would make too much noise. So he slowed down just a little bit and pulled the door open before making a run for the stairs. He ran up to the second floor before he decided that this was the appropriate height. Any further up and he could break a few bones. He'd stopped running altogether now and was instead walking calmly towards a door, twisting the doorknob and pushing it open as if he was stealing into someone's home.

He was met with the sight of a huge span of floor to ceiling glass windows. He smiled to himself now. Suddenly, his plan was made all the more easier. He went to stand directly in front of it, his mind already working on a way to signal to the Circle that he was up here and alert them to what he needed them to do. He looked down at his Circle members and saw how many of them had suffered scratches, bruises, and how their clothes had been torn. He could see Luke gripping his shoulder tightly, trying to ease the pain he felt. And Jocelyn was limping.

And he wasn't the only one who noticed all these things. A relatively new member of the Circle, Madi, was looking around herself at her friends. There was anguish on her face, and she looked up to the night sky. As she was doing that, however, her gaze flitted over Valentine behind the glass window—and _immediately_ went back to him.

As she was looking at him, he was looking at her. He hadn't been able to train her or teach her of their battle formations before they left for Paris, but he hoped now with his whole being that she would understand him. He pointed to her and to some of the Circle members one by one and then drew a circle through the air with his hand. After, he pointed to the vampire girl, to Claire Daxeny, and held both his hands out, his palms facing inward towards himself so that the backside of his hands would be seen to her, and then pulled his hands in his direction, the motion looking as though he was pulling air.

Madi understood in an instant. She didn't know how to give the command, though, so she simply pulled another member towards her—she'd pulled Stephen. It was like Fate wouldn't allow the Circle to die today. He looked up to where Valentine was and saw the face of their leader. Without hesitation, without thinking, he gave the order, trusting that Valentine knew what he was doing, trusting Valentine with his very life.

The Circle members ceased every form of movement. Claire Daxeny, juvenile vampire that she was, was puzzled and didn't know what to make of the break in their fight. And then suddenly, as one, the Circle moved to their positions, forming a perfectly round circle around the vampire girl, Stephen inside the circle, his seraph blade aimed at the vampire's heart. He moved forward and the rest followed. The vampire was pushed back—and back and back until she was within the perfect range for the boy standing up in the second floor. Stephen stopped moving and the others with him. The vampire, having recovered from her shock, advanced toward Stephen, seeing him as the leader.

Valentine retrieved his stele from its position next to the seraph blade and drew a fresh rune on himself, then returned it to the strap, taking now his seraph blade. He took several steps back until he was in the doorway and then, before he could talk himself out of it, he raced towards the windows. "Uriel," he said just before his body came into contact with the glass.

And that was when everyone heard a loud crash coming from above, and the next thing they knew, shards of broken glass were raining down around them. Stephen shouted his order, and it was only a single word—"COVER!"

The Circle broke their formation and went running to keep themselves from being hurt by the falling glass.

Valentine held his seraph blade tightly in his hand as he fell so, so quickly down to the earth, gravity pulling at him. He watched as the figure of Claire Daxeny came closer and closer with every second that he fell, unable to take his eyes off of her. He saw her head beginning to move. She was about to look up. And then she did and for a reason unknown to him, Uriel glowed brighter and when he was close enough to strike her, he lashed the seraph blade out and it hit her in the forehead so hard that the weapon could have broken.

He managed to execute a tumble just as he was about to hit the ground, somewhat breaking what would have been an excruciatingly torturous fall. He'd missed the vampire's body by only a little bit. He felt small pieces of glass embedding themselves in his skin and his whole body was in a state of pain. Apparently, the adrenaline hadn't been able to numb that. The pain he felt was restricting and he couldn't get up. He moved his shoulder a little and wave upon wave of pain crashed onto him. He wanted to scream, to wail in agony, but settled for a groan.

Instantly, a stele wielding Circle member was at his side, scribbling new runes onto his person until he felt the pain being eliminated just a little. He started to get up, and where only the girl had been mere moments earlier, at least a dozen had joined her. Someone took him by his upper arms and lifted him up.

Everything within him was screaming for him to take a step, however small, towards Claire Daxeny's unconscious body. He tried, but he couldn't. Valentine only stood there, his arm draped around Lucian to keep himself upright and looked on as three Circle members went to work on tying her up. Jocelyn looked at him then, worry in her eyes although a smile was upon her lips. "Well, we've got your vampire."

"Indeed we have."


	8. Chapter Seven

**A/N: Okay, so after a month of not updating this story, I hope I still have readers and that this chapter does not disappoint. I really hated being on a sudden hiatus so I give you my word that I will post at least one chapter every week...unless I really, really, really can't. So, yeah, enjoy.**

**P.S: beautifulxxflame, when you read this, don't kill me for making Madi do what she did. It just means she has balls. xP**

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His arm turned into an iron band around the vampire's waist as they stood before the receptionist, the tip of a blade—a _silver_ blade—he'd so cleverly hidden in his sleeve pressing into Claire just a little bit. The thick material of her clothing kept the blade from touching her skin, thus not hurting her, but it was enough to make her apprehensive. If there was anything she'd learned about this golden-haired boy over the past hour or so, it was that he wouldn't hesitate before plunging the weapon into her, burning her from the inside out. He'd probably drag her off to a secluded alley somewhere and drown her in holy water just to be safe.

The woman sitting behind the counter was petite, and compared to Valentine, she looked like a midget. Her short, mousy hair bobbed just slightly as her head suddenly snapped up to look at the band of youngsters before her. She offered them a small smile, but other than Valentine, who was standing at the very front of the group, his arm wrapped firmly around Claire's waist, no one else returned her gesture. Soon, though, Valentine's smile disappeared and upon his face came a worried, gaunt expression. He looked like a father who'd just lost his child in the fair. "I was watching the news earlier and saw that girl—"

"Oh, are you her next of kin?" she asked carefully.

Valentine frowned in an attempt to look even more worried. "I'm her cousin. I've been looking for her all day. We were supposed to go visit the Louvre, but she disappeared before we got there."

"And, uh, where is your father?" The receptionist studied him from the very top of his head and down to his toes—well, no. Not really. She could only examine what she could see over the counter. She pushed her glasses further up the bridge of her nose, assessing Valentine once more. She then said, "Or maybe _her_ father?" When she first saw him, she had been inclined to trust him, but then she saw his friends and that inclination flew out the window. She had no idea—absolutely _no_ idea—who the girl resting in the ward was, but she was still a patient here and she wanted to keep her safe. And the boy in front of her didn't look safe._ Neither did his friends._

Valentine sighed, his free hand going up to massage his temple. God damn it all to hell, he thought. She didn't trust him. He could see it in her eyes that she didn't trust him. He let the concealed blade slide out by a fraction of an inch. This time, it was enough to give Claire the smallest of pokes in the side and when he held her tighter, her eyes widened as she felt the sharp tip of the dagger dangerously close to her person. Valentine turned his head a little bit and planted a kiss on her cheek, then travelled up to her ear. He kissed the spot between her ear and her jaw before whispering, "Compel her."

It was more the shock of the sudden intimacy rather than fear that made her instantly give in to his wishes. "Ma'am," she said, in her tinkling voice. The woman's eyes left Valentine to come to rest upon her and it wasn't long before Claire was able to get her under her thumb. She could feel Valentine smile, his lips still upon the side of her face.

"Surely you can let me see my cousin before my father and uncle get here?" he said, his voice velvety and smooth. At the very back of the group, Jocelyn shivered. If ever she imagined a bedroom voice, then Valentine's surely fit the bill. "I would so love to have reassurance that my cousin is alright," he continued, his voice never wavering.

The woman, under Claire's compulsion—or perhaps enchanted by Valentine's voice—immediately told them where she was. Valentine looked away from the woman briefly to study the numbers on the walls, pointing in the direction of several wards. They weren't arranged in any numerical order—or in any order, truth be told—and were very, _very_ confusing. "Hmm," he said, not quite satisfied. "Perhaps it'd be better if you could take us there. In a facility as big as this, I'm sure many can afford to get lost."

Without smiling, without uttering so much as a syllable or even a grunt, the woman began walking, and as soon as Valentine took his first step, everyone else fell into step behind him. It turned out to be a wonderful idea, having the receptionist take them to the girl's ward. They'd gone up two floors and walked through so many corridors that Valentine was beginning to worry he wouldn't remember the way back. When they finally stopped in front of a door, the silence was so deafening that Valentine hesitated at the thought of speaking. "You may return to your post now and you will remember none of this."

He nudged Claire a little with his shoulder. She didn't have to ask him to know what he meant. He wanted her to say it, too, as a precaution. "You will forget everything you have seen. You will forget that we were here and if anyone asks, the girl's family came and took her home." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw one of the Shadowhunters take a step back and it was only a second after that that she heard the faintest of gasps. She looked up at the boy beside her just in time to see his ear twitch. He'd heard it as well. It seemed that the rest of his band of fans were taken aback that she'd done something without his command, but the man himself showed no signs of anger or annoyance.

The receptionist soon left, not a single word leaving her lips. Claire smiled, satisfied with herself. Within the next moment, she felt something sharp tear through her coat, through her dress and dig deep into her side. The blade was angled just the right way so the tip met with her heart. She didn't need to breathe. In fact, she hadn't breathed air for nearly six decades now, but tonight, the sudden intake of breath nearly choked her.

Behind him, Valentine heard someone beginning to scream. Before she could alert anyone, though, someone stopped her and aside from the croaks that left Claire, the corridor was silent once more. With the last semblance of her strength, Claire looked at Valentine, her eyes begging for his aid. He smiled at her—a half smile—and then pulled the dagger out of her before plunging the blade back into her person. This time, he lodged if right inside her with only the hilt visible, the blade completely lost inside her. He moved away from her, and she fell to the floor. _Dead._

"Why did you do that?" Someone whispered harshly from behind him. "What could possibly possess you to do that? Why did you kill her?"

Valentine spun on his heel, ready to take on the senior member of the Circle who had dared contradict him—and came face to face with Madi, arguably the youngest member of the Circle, rage, disbelief, horror written plainly all over her face. He was stopped short at the sight of the girl standing before him, all anger and defiance. But that only lasted a second. Within the next one, he was reminded that she was being angry and defiant to _him_.

Before he could think rationally, before he could tell himself to calm down, he seized her by the throat and flung her against the wall. Not a single soul moved forward to stop him as he made his way to her crumpled form on the floor. He grabbed her arm, his fingers wrapped so tightly that she was certain she'd be left with bruises, and then pinned her against the wall, his full weight bearing down on her so she couldn't move even an inch. "You are new," he said slowly through clenched teeth, his voice seething with rage, "and because of that, I will not subject you to punishment."

Then, quite suddenly, he released her arm and stepped away from her, allowing her to breathe—and glare daggers at him. "Madi, stop," Maryse said.

"Stop what?" her voice low, yet keeping the tone with which she had so boldly spoken to him before. "Stop speaking my mind? He killed her just like that. What if her family finds out and sends someone to hunt us down? Are we all willing to die for his mistake?"

"Valentine knows what he's—"

Faster than she could've blinked, the Circle leader was once again by her side. It was unnerving, how close he was. "Do you think that I am truly that stupid? While all of you were busy playing jailhouse rock with Miss Daxeny over there, I was doing research. Her _coven_ will not come looking for her because she has no coven. She is a lone vampire, exiled. She is an outcast amongst _all_ Downworlders." He took a step back so he could look her dead in the eye. "Magnus Bane is in town. Did you know that?" Madi was silent, and that was enough of an answer for Valentine. "If I had let her live, she would've gone to him. Robert," he called out, "what does Mr Bane like to do to occupy his free time?"

Robert cleared his throat before answering, and even then, he stuttered. "He…uh…h-h-he likes to meddle into m-matters that don't con-concern him."

"That's right. He likes to meddle into matters that don't concern him. Had she lived and seen him, told him about this, he would meddle and it's never nice when Magnus Bane meddles. So before you come, riding upon your white horse to preach to me about murder and mistakes, I suggest that you remind yourself that all I want is for all of you to stay alive." His tone had returned to the charming, smooth one he always spoke with and despite the fact that she didn't want to feel guilty, it was exactly what Madi felt. He stood rooted to the floor for a little bit more before he turned around and said, "Well, then. Stephen, I trust you know what to do with Miss Daxeny."

Stephen Herondale straightened like a soldier who'd just received an order from his commanding officer and when he went to pick up the vampire's body, two other Circle members flanked either sides of him. Everyone else merely stood in the corridor, the silence embracing them. "Lucian, I want you to search this place for an exit. I presume that we'll not be able to take her out through the way we'd come in." Luke nodded and tugged on Jocelyn's hand, and within a minute, every other member of the Circle had made their exit from the hallway to assist the two Shadowhunters—all except Madi and two other new recruits.

Valentine placed his hand on the door knob. He twisted it and was relieved to find that it wasn't locked. Before he pushed the door open, however, he turned to look at Madi once more, then to the two others, his eyes sharp. There was no need for him to say anything. That look was enough of a command. _Stay outside and keep watch_, it said. He nodded curtly, a small part of him bewildered that he'd entrust the safety of his and the Circle's discretion to three inexperienced Circle members. The larger part of him, however, was absolutely confident in their being able to perform their task properly. With that security inside him, Valentine proceeded to open the door as quietly as he possibly could.

The room was small and dark and white. Everything was white. Except for the brown hair splayed across a pillow upon the hospital bed. From his vantage point at the far end of the room, the door behind him, he could see her chest rising and falling gently with every breath that she took. She looked calm.

She was asleep.

His shoes made no noise as he made his way to her bedside. The curtains were slightly drawn and through that one opening came the moon's waning light that seemed to lend the room a peaceful aura as opposed to the depression-inducing one it'd held earlier. He moved closer and closer and closer, and when he was well and truly by the edge of her bed, she stirred lightly. He froze, holding his breath and keeping every part of his body still, unsure of what to do were she to wake. After moments of stillness, he was just about to move when he heard a voice. The sudden sound of it was enough to make him almost jump back.

His heart was hammering away within his chest cavity when she mumbled something again. Her eyes, the one that had seemed so wild in the bookshop, were hidden behind closed eyelids. He made to move closer again when, quite unexpectedly, she squeezed her eyes shut and her mumbles began to take on a more desperate note. Valentine reached out to gently stroke her cheek—and stopped himself mid-way.

He had no right to do that. He didn't even know who she was and what's worse was the fact that she was _asleep_. He might as well be trying to take advantage of her.

But then she mumbled again, and her hands clutched tightly at the sheets, her eyes going wild underneath her closed eyelids. Reluctantly, he took her hand in his and stroked the back of it softly with his thumb. "Shh," he cooed, unaccustomed to the consoling words he was forming in his mind. "It's alright. I'm here." Unfortunately, it didn't seem to have any effect on her. She was now starting to pant, as if she'd been running and couldn't quite catch her breath. His mind having suddenly come to a complete halt, Valentine did what he'd stopped himself from doing not two minutes ago—he reached out and touched her cheek, making soothing sounds as he tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. "I'm here now," he said to her in as gentle a voice as he could muster. "I won't let anyone hurt you."

Her eyes were shockingly violet when she opened them and stared at him. He was still holding her hand, though fortunately, he'd already removed his other hand from her cheek. Her breathing became deeper and more labored as she looked at him, her eyes intent on his own. Her pupils then widened and she made to get away from him. His lips parted to let loose a string of words to reassure her, but before he could say anything, she spoke. "Please don't kill me."

A voice that was barely audible, yet it shot an icy chill down Valentine's spine. Ten years in the Academy and more experience in hunting demons than any other student he knew, yet he'd never heard anything quite like her voice, quite like the fear laced with it. "Please don't kill me," she breathed.

"I—" he noticed that she was trying to pull her hand away from his, and that made him tighten his grip. He sank down onto her bed and took both her hands, repeating the one thing his brain seemed capable of thinking. "_I won't let any harm come to you."_ Her eyes never strayed from his even as she took in the sight of his person against the moonlight, his hair shining like white gold, his dark eyes kind and gentle. And when he spoke again, his voice had become just as quiet as hers, almost as if he wanted no one else to hear what he had to say. "Please allow me the opportunity to help you. You can trust me."

They looked at each other in silence for a long time afterwards, he trying to ease the maelstrom within his person and she trying to make sense of what was happening. She pulled her hands out of his and pressed her palms to her eyes. Her head felt so heavy and she didn't want to think, yet this man was here, in her room, and he was making her think. Perhaps this was just a dream, a hallucination and when she removed her hands, he'd be gone.

Except she wasn't too sure she wanted him gone. She didn't want to be alone with those voices, taunting her and chasing her. He was kind—he _looked_ kind and for all she knew, he could be her guardian angel. She rested her hands on either sides of her and opened her eyes—only to meet his once again. She could hear his and her breathing and she could also hear her heart's steady thudding.

Unable to gage a response from her, Valentine ran a hand through his hair in frustration, closing his eyes for a short moment. When he opened them, he asked her again, more decisively this time, "Will you let me help you?"

She nodded just as a single knock was heard. Valentine wanted to smile, but had no time to as he rushed to the door with silent footsteps. He opened the door just a crack, half of his eye visible from behind the door. "We've found an exit," Jocelyn said in hushed tones. "Everyone else is outside, keeping guard. We'll wait out here while you get the girl ready."

The nod he gave her was barely perceptible, and it made her worry that maybe he was upset with her. And in some ways, Valentine _was_ upset with her. _The girl?_ He was certain that she had a name, although he reprimanded himself on his way back to her for being angry with Jocelyn for calling her that. Even _he_ called her that, for the Angel's sake.

He grabbed her charts, flipping through the pages for confirmation that she wasn't suffering from anything more than a mild concussion and a badly sprained ankle. He then searched the room for her clothes, remembering the white top and jeans she'd been wearing when he first saw her. He couldn't, however, find so much as a hint of clothing in the room. Left with no other choice, he took his coat off and put it about her before hooking one arm under her knees and another about her shoulders.

The minute he touched her, though, he felt like he was on fire and when she asked him what he was doing, he was incapable of forming a response. All he did was move forward towards the door and exited the room. He could feel the warmth of her seeping through the coat and through his clothes. He could feel his heart beating wildly in his chest and he hoped to God that she wasn't able to.

And he wanted to look down at her every three seconds.

Jocelyn noticed that. She eyed Valentine with an almost irritated demeanor and it was that that finally pulled him out of his trance. He'd deal with his thoughts later, but right now, he had to get her out of here—and even as he half-ran, half-walked to the exit, the full realization of what he was doing dawned upon him. Once he was out of this building, he will have officially kidnapped a girl and after that, he would take her to a place not a single mundane knew of.

Stop it, Valentine, he thought to himself. He didn't have time to plant doubts in himself. All he knew was that he needed to help her escape from whatever was tormenting her and the longer they stayed here, in Paris, the easier it would be for whoever she was running away from to catch up with her. You're a Shadowhunter, he told himself. Focus on your mission.

He repeated the words over and over and over again in his mind, never once letting himself forget what he was doing and why he was doing it. He couldn't think about anything else right now, couldn't let himself be distracted from keeping her safe. So much so that he almost didn't hear her when she said, "I think you're my Angel."

_Almost._


	9. Chapter Eight

**A/N: Okay, so it's almost 3 a.m. here as I'm writing this. After a long affliction of writer's block (blech!), I am finally able to write again. :))) I promised before that I'd try my best to get one chapter out per week, but as I've mentioned, I was suffering from writer's block. So anyway, I'm hoping to get a second chapter out this week. To those who are still reading this, thank you for sticking with me. And, as always, R&R! I love reviews almost as much as I love Shannon Leto of 30STM. :P**

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God damn it all to hell, he felt like all ten of his toes were frost-bitten! He'd never been quite so cold in his life, he was certain, and it was all he could do to bite back the curse that was just itching to leave his lips. Forget slapping him in the face. Valentine felt like the uncommonly cruel wind was nipping away bits and pieces of his flesh. Honestly, he was just waiting for the moment when the passing breeze would sing the leg of his pants and cut right through his skin. Every step he took felt heavy, as if someone had tied dumbbells to his feet. He felt reluctant to move, to leave the patch of ground he'd been standing on earlier, and for the first time that night, he felt the bone-deep exhaustion which he'd managed to ward off for the past few nights.

Everyone else was probably snuggled up in their beds, their heads upon soft pillows, and their bodies relaxing into comfortable mattresses, their covers pulled all the way up to their chin, warm and content in their sleep. He had a comfortable bed back home, too, and it was big and he was the only one who slept in it. Walking as briskly as he could with a girl in his arms, he now yearned for the bed which he'd taken for granted for far too long a time.

He made a mental note to collapse into it the minute he allowed himself into his bedroom and not leave for twenty-four hours, at the very least. It deserved far more than a few hours of his time. When he returned to his family's home, he would ignore everything else but his alliance with his bed. He would not eat. He wouldn't even open his eyes. He will be as a cadaver upon the sturdy structure of his mahogany bed. He would not leave it even if a Greater Demon had broken into his home and killed everyone in sight. If he had to die, then he would do so as a man catching up on some much needed rest.

Valentine was already making plans for his bed—how he would fluff his pillows and which side of it he would sleep in—but in his arms, the girl stirred, and for a moment, he felt as if he'd been suddenly yanked out of his body. Of course she'd be the only thing to hinder him from falling into a deep, comatose-like slumber. He stopped and unhooked the arm under her knees, setting her on her feet, careful to let her stand on his shoes as opposed to the cold cement of the pavement, one of his arms still about her shoulders in a protective circle.

She'd fallen asleep about halfway through their hour long journey back to the city, still a little less than lucid due to the drugs she'd been administered. Looking at her now, at the way she was staring back at him, her eyes just beginning to clear of the sleep-induced haze, part of him wished he could bring himself to deliver her a hard smack in the face. It was unfair that she'd been able to rest while he'd had to trudge the cold road back to Paris, his coat absent.

The girl turned her head away, trying to stifle a yawn, and his jealousy grew tenfold. The hand upon her shoulder tightened. By the Angel, he wanted to thrash her!

"I'm so sorry I fell asleep," she said, turning her face back towards his so she could look into his eyes. The smallest of smiles graced her lips. "It's awfully cold. Would you want your coat back then?"

_Yes!_ "No, that's alright. You must be freezing as well," he heard himself say. And he didn't even have time to think of how incredulous he'd sounded to his common sense—he truly did want his coat back, after all—when he suddenly looked down at her, well and properly. Clad in only her hospital-sanctioned garment and his coat (which really was far too big for her), she didn't have much to keep her warm. In fact, anything lower than her knees was completely bare to the angry winter atmosphere. The beginnings of a frown etched itself onto his forehead. "We need to find you some clothes," he heard himself say.

She laughed, a merry little sound that denoted nothing of her past confusion or fear. "It's got to be the middle of the night right now. I don't think there are any shops open."

He made to pick her up again, but then realized that his arms were strangely sore now. He wasn't surprised, though, when he considered the fact that he'd been holding her in his arms for over an hour. So, instead of taking her back up into his arms, he grabbed her by the underside of her upper arms and maneuvered her in such a way that he could swing her onto his back with ease. She slipped out a barely audible _oh!_ of surprise, wrapping her arms about his neck to steady herself. "I should really start walking now," she said, and Valentine recognized the starting of a protest. "You've been so kind to have carried me all the way here. I don't think I can bear to—"

Despite everything, he felt the ghost of a smile approaching him and he had to bite down on his lower lip to keep it from actually making an appearance—he had to bite _hard_. He began to move again, noticing that she made no effort to stop him or to detach herself from his back. "Your ankle hurts like the very devil," he said, seeing just a little bit of her pallid cheek out of the corner of his eye, "and you know it. Thus, you will be silent and unmoving. I want no protests from you."

Though he was certain it lasted for only a few seconds, it felt like they were engulfed in silence for the longest time before she shifted on his back, her hospital dress rustling as it moved against his shirt. In this position, her dress must've hiked up a bit because he could feel the warmth of her seeping through the fabric of his trousers as her thigh rubbed against his.

_Her thigh rubbed against his?_ That had to be some sort of an accident.

Against his better judgment, completely ignoring how his brain was screaming at him not to say anything, Valentine began to open his mouth to speak, to ask about what had just transpired. Surely that jolt of electricity rushing through his veins, the one which was horridly out of place, was not an accident. Perhaps what had happened was not an accident either? Had she meant to do that?

A contented sigh passed through her lips when she rested her cheek upon his shoulder, and Valentine felt her breath caress his neck. A tingle shot down his spine, although it was nothing like the ones he'd felt travelling down his spine rather similarly when he was up against a demon. It made the pit of his stomach feel warm and…strange.

Her cheek felt like ice against his shoulder, and when he heard her yawn once more, he berated himself for thinking her actions were laced with motive. He wanted to punch himself in the gut. She'd thought nothing of her thigh having rubbed against his own. She'd probably done it in an attempt to latch herself more firmly unto him. After all, if she fell, it would hurt quite a bit.

Good God, he was blowing everything out of proportion—and frankly, he was beginning to feel irritated with himself. What was it about the girl that had him so on edge? She was only here because he'd been stupid enough to not open the doors to her that night. She was here solely because he could've kept her from getting hit by that car. And he would've been able to do that if he'd just opened that God forsaken door.

It had all began with the door.

In his ear, her breathing sounded like it'd gone back to its steady rhythm. Perhaps she'd fallen asleep again. It was then that he allowed himself to think back to the hospital. Just before they'd exited the building, she'd said that he was her Angel. Wait, no. She'd said she _thought_ he was her Angel. It was not something she was sure of, and he didn't understand why that bothered him so much. When he heard her say it, those string of words leaving her mouth like the most heart wrenching curse ever known to man, he felt his mouth set itself into a grim line—just as it was now.

He could not stop thinking about her. He wasn't able to keep his mind from straying to what Maryse had said. _"But I didn't hear him say it. It was…he spoke in my mind."_ Whoever it was who was pursuing her, he was not human, and that meant that the problems she was facing was not something to be taken lightly. Hell, now that he'd practically kidnapped her, he supposed her problems were also his problems. Her pursuer would not be happy to learn of a Shadowhunter meddling in his affairs.

Valentine had to watch his back.

"Angel," she breathed, and though it was but a whisper, she might as well have screamed it into his ear because the exact moment she uttered that single word, he saw it. He saw _them_—multiple figures in black.

_Give her to us_, a voice sounded in his head. He took an involuntary step back, his mind racing with the sudden intrusion upon it. In the next second, however, he had transitioned from shocked Academy student to battle-hungry Shadowhunter.

They took their first step in unison, but as Valentine made a sudden right into a dark alley, he saw them clambering to come after him and the girl, their synchronization completely broken. A smirk caught onto him even as he moved as fast as his Nephilim blood would allow him, and then made himself run even faster than that. The whole alley was dotted with doors of all colours, back entrances to a variety of shops, but as he ran past them, they blurred together and different colours collided with one another. Within a minute, Valentine was almost to the other side of the alley and he could see a park not too far away from where he was.

He summoned what he could of his strength and made to project himself even faster out of the narrow space between two different blocks when a whir of black passed by him and stopped before him.

There was only a foot left between them when Valentine came to the sudden halt. He could hear the girl gasp, and his hand immediately went to the seraph blade hidden in the waistband of his pants. "_Saraqael_," he whispered, and the faint glow and heat that his weapon emitted sparked confidence in him.

He heard footsteps come up behind him and instinctively, he backed up against the wall, trapping the girl between it and him, keeping her as far out of reach from the group of black figures as he could. As they started to lunge toward him, Valentine reached into his pocket, feeling a quick burst of sharp pain as the three metal darts he kept in there at all times sliced through a little bit of his skin. His hand whipped out in the direction of one who was too close for his liking. He poised his hand just the way he'd trained and threw the dart at the creature, the small metal object flying out of his grip with such force that it hit him squarely in the chest and exited through his back. He dropped dead at a moment's notice.

A seraph blade in one hand and two more darts in another were making it harder for the Shadowhunter to commence his counterattack. His eyes cut to his left at precisely the right time and saw another figure rapidly approaching. From his right, he knew that there were several others rushing towards them. His mind made a quick assessment of which of the two was a more imminent threat and a snap decision was made that he should settle the one on his left first. He released the two darts toward two approaching figures and his legs then twisted and following that, the rest of his upper body, the hand wielding the seraph blade already held high, readying itself for a fight.

Within a fraction of a second, Valentine heard a gurgle from somewhere in the alley and he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that his darts had struck exactly where he'd wanted them to: the attackers' throats. It was probably lodged in there and it would be only a few seconds until they were dead. A terrible battle cry accompanied the hand that was moving quickly in the air, swinging a weapon towards his person. Valentine stopped the hand midway, however, and came down upon it hard with his seraph blade. He barely had time to watch the hand fall away from the rest of his attacker's arm when a vicious cry was ripped from the figure, and Valentine grabbed his injured arm, pulling him closer before embedding his chosen weapon into him. Once he felt it enter the figure, the young man moved his arm harshly to the side, tearing the man before him almost in half.

Reaching behind him, he held the girl's hand tightly in his grip and pulled on it forcefully, and the minute he started moving, he felt her running along behind him. There was no way for him to be certain of how long they'd been running, although he did have a feeling that they hadn't been doing it for long before he slowed down a little, tugged at her so that she would run ahead of him and released her hand. He turned around once more to face the horde of attackers and what he saw made him despair, even if it was only the slightest bit.

They were almost to them and the full realization of exactly how non-human their pursuers were dawned upon him as if new light had been shed upon them. He felt the steady stream of heat being released by his seraph blade and his hold on it tightened so much, it very nearly began to hurt him. He could feel blood trickling down the blade and continuing their path down his hand only to land in droplets on the ground.

He charged towards them, which caused some of them to falter. Obviously, they had not been expecting that. Valentine felt a smirk coming alive upon his face again as he gauged their reactions. He let loose his seraph blade, the weapon tearing through the air at an incredible speed before lodging itself in the forehead of a figure in black. The owner of the seraph blade followed suit the path of his weapon and as he performed a neat arch in the air—rather like he had when he'd jumped out of the window—he reached for it and pulled it roughly out of the head of the dead man, blood spattering everywhere before executing a tumble, landing non-too-hard on the ground.

"I will kill you all," he heard himself say through clenched teeth. He hadn't quite realized how angry he was, but now that he had, it was the sort of rage that took over him and made him want to tear everyone apart limb from limb. He went into a crouching position before launching himself at his next target. The seraph blade ripped through skin, just the way it was made, and he heard a horrible shriek as it plunged into the figure's heart. Unremorseful and unrelenting, Valentine yanked his weapon out, hurtling it at yet another person.

Unfortunately, this one was able to deflect the flying weapon with one of his own and he'd struck it hard enough to break the blade in two. The Shadowhunter felt a little pang of heartache as he watched it separate in a way it never had before. However, friendly fire was on, apparently, because as a result of the deflection, the broken blade had ricocheted off the weapon of his intended victim and planted itself in the eye of another attacker, the force with which it hit the figure so hard that it embedded itself in his brain.

With no weapon available to him, Valentine raced toward a wall and, for the second time that night, launched himself onto it. Once he was close enough, his legs shot out, his feet landing on the hard surface of the wall, and his whole body compressed so that he could project himself toward the opposite wall like a spring. It worked like a charm, and when his feet touched the other wall, he stretched his body out in a manner that enabled him to hold onto the ledge and pull himself up onto the building. He began running in the direction in which the girl had escaped to earlier, and he noticed for the first time that she'd gone towards the park.

A wave of relief washed over him. It was exactly where he'd wanted her to go.

But then, just as quickly as that relief visited him, it left. She'd had a badly sprained ankle and it was evident that adrenaline had not gotten the better of her because even from where he was, he could see that she had begun to limp again and figures in black were catching up with her like shadows that would never leave.

Fueled by a renewed fury for the loss of his favourite weapon and protective instincts over the girl, Valentine grabbed the first thing he saw—_a polyvinyl chloride pipe_. He held onto it as if his life depended on it and ran towards the edge of the building—and ran and ran and ran, and when he was perilously close to not having anything to run on any longer, he jumped from the top of the three story high building, landing in a crouching position, not wanting to waste time executing the tumble that would've saved his legs from the pain that was shooting from the soles of his feet. He didn't dwell on the pain for long, though, because soon, he was making his way towards the girl.

To be able to be close enough to her so as to see her clearly in the amount of time he'd taken (which was no time at all) required a lot of physical exertion on his part, even with his abilities as a Shadowhunter. Everything seemed to move in slow-motion to him as he watched her rip his coat away from her body and throw it behind her, catching one of her chasers in the face. Blinded, he stumbled for a little while before ridding himself of the cumbersome thing and resuming his chase.

In his chest, his heart thundered and it was all the encouragement he needed to go after them. He forced his legs to move at a pace they weren't used to. Within seconds, he felt like his legs would give out and he would fall and for the first time in a long time, he sent up a little prayer. He needed to get to her and he needed to do it fast. If he fell, even for a second, she would have no hope. Come on, you damned things, he thought. "MOVE!"

The girl, having heard his voice, whipped her head around to look at him. Her eyes were wide—with fear? With hope? He wasn't too sure himself.

Valentine's grip on the pipe tightened as his legs began to gain momentum, finally accustoming themselves to the speed of his running. It wasn't long before he managed to close the distance between him and one of the figures. He wrapped both hands around the pipe and held it up high before sending it on a violent descent, the pipe catching the figure in the back of his knee. There was a loud crack, the sound of bones being broken. He howled in pain and fell to the ground, unable to even clutch his leg for fear of causing himself more pain than that which he was already experiencing.

How Valentine would have love to stay a little longer and finish the vile thing off, but she was his first priority and he had to get to her fast. It was with a partially heavy heart that he left the creature there, in a world of pain, and continued to run after the girl. Luckily, though, they weren't too far ahead of him and he caught up with them easily.

A cry was ripped from his throat and he tackled the black figure, both of them falling to the ground. He was prepared to lift the pipe again the way he had earlier with the figure's fallen partner, but before he could make the slightest of movements, he felt something hard strike him in the stomach, sending him flying off the creature. He clutched his stomach even as he got up, unable to breathe properly. By the Angel, it hurt!

The creature rushed in his direction, hand once again balled up into a fist, ready to serve the young Shadowhunter another blow. When he swung at the young man, trying to clip him in the jaw, Valentine ducked, turned on his heel and elbowed the creature in the ribs—_hard_. He heard a groan and returned to his full height, grabbed the figure's head and smashed it against his raised knee, and he'd done so with as much strength as he could muster.

_Crack!_ And then there was a yell.

The creature in black fell onto the ground and Valentine took the opportunity to stab the man with the pipe, the blunt edges of his makeshift weapon boring into the man's abdomen, hitting the winter-hardened ground and then boring into that as well. He looked behind him and saw black figures not nearly as far away from them as he'd like. Not being able to restrict himself anymore, Valentine half-shouted a few choice expletives. He made his way urgently to the girl and started to reach out to touch her cheek, but then stopped himself short. He bit the inside of his lip for a little while, then motioned for her to climb onto his back.

She shivered when she felt the warmth of his body. It was in such stark contrast to the cold, cold wind she'd felt not five seconds before. She just had time to settle onto his back before he took off again at top speed.

Truthfully, Valentine had not a clue where he was headed. He'd never ventured to this park before. All he knew was that he was desperate to get away from the horde of unidentified creatures chasing them. God, but he hadn't expected her to be quite so wanted. He hadn't foreseen any of this.

Not knowing where to go, he dived into the trees, hoping that he would be able to keep them hidden until he figured out what to do. The Institute was far from here, but not quite as far as the Portal they'd came through last week. But then again, with her, he wouldn't be able to return to the Institute. They'd take her away and he'd not be able to help her. He'd never see her again, and somehow, that hurt him more than the thought of not saving her from…whatever one wanted to call this ridiculous situation.

"Angel," her soft voice suddenly sounded, and Valentine was snapped out of his reverie. He turned his head a little bit so she would be in his line of vision. She was pointing towards something, and the way her arm was outstretched to the absolute maximum gave him the impression that whatever she'd seen, it was a little way away from where they were. "What's that light? Is it the city?"

His eyes trailed the direction in which she was gesturing and, indeed, he saw lights. There was no way that they were coming from the city, though. They were a long way away from the city. And he was certain—with all of himself—that the city did not glow such an eerie green and purple. He began to walk towards it, and as he did so, he was recalling the lessons Mr Lockwood had given in history. They were now on the topic of the failed peace talks with Downworlders, and he was fairly certain that there was only one race that could produce that sort of light.

He moved soundlessly across the forest floor, careful not to step on any twigs or dried leaves. He didn't want to alert the creatures ahead nor the ones that were looking for them. The silence was killing him and the slow pace with which he was moving made him feel uneasy. He hated moving this slow.

That was when he heard a twig snap. Without looking back, he broke into a run and upon seeing the lights glowing stronger and brighter, he moved faster. If they were going to close it, he needed to get there before it would be gone for good. At this point, he didn't even care where in Idris it would lead them. As long as it left them in Idris, he was fine with it. He knew the country like the back of his hand and he'd find his way back to Alicante, back to his home. He just needed to get back to his country first.

The light was brighter now more than ever, and he saw the green of the Portal just an arm's length away. He reached for her hand and held it tightly in his. He could already see his home, and his bed, and breakfast upon the huge dining table—

"Angel child," someone hissed from behind him.

Instinct getting the better of him, Valentine spun around, ready to take on anything despite not having anything but his body as a weapon. He was greeted by the sight of two faeries, ethereal-looking in their clothes that reflected their surroundings, their home. But in their eyes was that menacing glow.

"He warned you about her. _He warned you about her_." They chanted it over and over again, as if it were their special mantra.

His lips pulled back in disgust. He did not need to be in their presence. He did not need their taunting and their games, their manipulation. He took a step backward, his eyes trained upon them. He knew they wouldn't do anything. They may have warriors whom they were proud of, but they were cowards, the lot of them, taking pleasure only in seeing others in anguish. "Angel," she whispered in his ear, and his head snapped back to look at her. As if she knew what he was feeling, she shook her head a little and that made him want to stop looking at them, to turn around and walk into the Portal.

So that was exactly what he did.

Valentine turned his back to them and took step after step, bringing him and her ever closer to the Portal. Finally, he took that last step that would see him into the gateway to Idris, but even then, the faeries would not leave him.

"When it happens, don't say you didn't know. You already know, Angel child. You've always known."


	10. Chapter Nine

**A/N: Okay, so beautifulxxflame knows how busy I am. She will vouch for me if anyone should suspect that I am lying and am, in fact, not busy. But I am. Really, I am. So anyways, I know that this is way overdue, but I'm foregoing sleep and homework to write this. I prioritize really well, I know. :PP I'm hoping that there will be no homicidal tendencies today/tonight, okay? So I don't really like this chapter. No, really, I don't. It seems off to me. However, it has gotten a little bit long (shorter than my recent chapters, actually) and I know that if I don't post this, then I never will. I would like to apologize in advance for any suicidal thoughts after the reading of this chapter. Also, I'm gonna need it in writing that I will not be held accountable for any strange, sudden deaths. That is all. Now, R&R.**

* * *

It took several seconds for his mind to process the sudden ripping sound that had split the quiet nighttime and even longer than that to notice the cold air whipping across his back. It wasn't until he felt—_really felt_—small rocks digging into his skin that he realized his shirt had snagged on something and torn clean from his back. When he tried to get up, there was such an indescribable pain in his head and his back and every other part of his person that he felt certain his skeletal system had slammed up into his flesh, into within an inch of tearing through his skin, as a result of the horrendous fall he'd just suffered.

Now he remembered why Professor Gail had warned against using unfamiliar Portals. Her voice sounded in his mind like a mock. _"Heaven forbid it should be broken and send you spiraling to the ground. Think of how painful that would be."_ And she'd looked straight at him during that class, as if she'd predicted something like this would happen to him. God, but he really did hate that woman.

Valentine was incapable of silencing the groan that he made when he finally got back on his two feet. With no Circle member eagerly rushing to his aid, the young man had to move gingerly through the almost-meter separating him and the girl, brushing off the thought of reaching for his stele the second it popped up in his brain. If it hurt to walk, he didn't need to run an experiment to know that he'd scream his throat sore were he to twist his arm to retrieve his stele, and if the wild throbbing in his left wrist was any indicator, after the strain he'd put it through today, his injured hand would sooner fall to the ground than allow him an attempt at a rune.

He sank onto the ground, heavily, inelegantly and ungracefully, the underbrush not even trying to cushion the weight of him being pulled down by gravity. He was, however, grateful for the tree behind him. If he'd just lean back now, well and proper, and rested his head against the trunk as well, it'd be the easiest thing to fall asleep. Every part of his body was echoing the throbbing of his wrist, although theirs were dull ones, pains that were barely registered with the stillness of his person. He was so tired. His eyelids were having a hard time staying open and he wanted sleep, needed it like he needed air. He should've stopped at a hotel while they were in Paris. He'd had his wallet with him and he'd been carrying enough money to secure him a room in the Four Seasons. Or he could've tried to look for an abandoned building and gone to sleep there. That way, he would've been able to put some distance between himself and the girl and still keep an eye on her, instead of the position they were put in now, with her head on his shoulder, her soft breathing a steady rhythm in his ear.

Reluctantly, one eye cracked open—just a bit, though—and he could see her mass of brown hair not even a centimeter away.

Every thought he had in that one second urged him to push her away, to not let her fall asleep on him. He made to move, to extract himself from his close proximity to her and rest where the Portal had discarded him, but then she let out a soft "Mmm", and he felt a warm fluttering in the pit of his stomach, his heart racing to match the pace of it, and he stayed where he was. For all he knew, if he moved even the tiniest bit, pain would shoot up every nerve ending there was in his body, his muscles would contract and he'd curl up like a foetus upon the forest floor, cursing himself for that one masochistic tendency.

Next to him, the girl inched closer, and his first instinct was to move his arm and wrap it around her waist. A flash of pain shot up to his shoulder. It was so sudden and so quick that he didn't have the time to bite down on his tongue to keep himself from groaning again. So that was what he did. He groaned and he snatched his arm away from her, resulting in another stab of pain, and this time, he pressed the back of his head into the trunk of the tree almost as if he were hoping to make a hole in it. His eyes squeezed shut, seemingly the only defense he had against the pain that was sending his mind reeling into almost oblivion.

The absence of the weight of her head on his shoulder left him feeling utterly bereft, and it was all he could do to not pull her back to where she'd been earlier, world of pain and masochistic tendencies be damned.

"Are you alright?" he heard her ask, her voice so clear, her breath warm upon his person that he knew she was close. Acting out against his every reason, he felt himself nod and his lips curved into a half smile. "Are you sure?" she asked again, and it was almost impossible to not smile at how worried she sounded. He nodded again, his taut muscles beginning to relax, and he slumped just a little bit, his bare back rubbing against the rough texture of the tree trunk. He'd probably regret that in the morning when he finds out that he'd chaffed the skin.

Realizing that he wanted to see her, his eyes opened, all traces of reluctance gone, and his vision was filled with the sight of her. "That was quite a fall I suffered," he said to her, his voice so low, it was perilously close to being a whisper. Her mouth opened to speak, but no sound would emerge and instead, her lips merely formed the words 'I know'. "Devil take it, but my shoulder hurts like hell."

Something lit up in her eyes. "Do you want a massage? I think it'll help you feel better."

_No!_ "Um—" _Say no! _"I…uh…" _God damn it, Valentine, just say no!_ "I suppose I'll need some relief from this wretched pain."

She smiled, and the moonlight caught her eyes, turning the violet into silver. He'd heard of how some of the students in the Academy had fancied themselves in love when they saw the silvery tint of their lover's eyes in the moon's light, and he'd read about romantic heroes who fell desperately for silver-eyed beauties, but as he looked at her now, at this mundane girl he'd kidnapped not two hours ago, that he knew nothing about, he thought that silver eyes looked horrid on her. He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, and then opened them again. He must truly be in need of that sleep because his mind was already starting to make him see things. He could've sworn she was glowing—and he hated it. Light fell upon every part of her and she looked so ethereal that she seemed inhuman.

He turned his back to her, and heard a giggle not a heartbeat later. He turned his head faster than he would've liked and saw that she was almost doubling over with laughter, obviously unfazed by his turning his eyes onto her. "I'm sorry," she said, when she finally stopped laughing long enough to gasp for air. "I'm so sorry." And that was all she managed to get out before whatever it was that she found so hilarious got her within its grips again and her laughing renewed. He fixed his most convincing I-am-not-amused face and proceeded to stare her down. Hell, if it worked with the Circle members and with the students back in the Academy, why wouldn't it work on her?

...

Even through his closed eyelids, the sun was shining blindingly, like it was trying its hardest to burn through the only thing stopping it from setting his eyes on fire. Valentine threw an arm over his face, effectively ending the sun's cruelty and turned onto his right where his other arm was outstretched, acting as a pillow for the sleeping girl, wisps of her hair tickling his nose when a non-existent wind breathed past them.

His eyes shot open and he looked at the face of the girl next to him, her eyes closed—thankfully, though, not in the fear-empowered manner he'd seen her do countless times before—her lips slightly parted, her features peaceful and serene in sleep. A sharp intake of breath was the only thing he could think of doing and it was all his still sleep-deprived body could push itself to do. He didn't remember inviting her to lie next to him. In fact, he didn't remember even falling asleep.

She shifted restlessly, impatiently, as if she were upon an actual bed and not the forest floor, and she turned away from his intrusive eyes. And it was true. He _was_ being intrusive. He'd even go as far as to say that he was invading her privacy, staring at her like he had while she was asleep. It was everything he knew he shouldn't do to a woman. By the Angel, he hadn't even wanted to touch her in the hospital for fear that he'd be taking advantage of her and here he was, lying next to her sleeping form, staring away. But then again, he hadn't been taught what to do, how to react when he finds a girl asleep next to him, and he had never been in a situation which might have given him the experience. To add to that, he'd never been good with sleeping people.

So when she began to shift again, this time mewling as well, he perceived it as her having an unpleasant dream and removed his hand from his face, placing it on her waist. That seemed to set her at ease and she sighed contentedly, relaxing into his touch. With her head upon his forearm, Valentine had free leave to prop himself up on his elbow and peer down at the sleeping girl. Most of her face was turned away from him, but a little bit was still available to things other than the ground and he moved closer to her, his hand, which had been doing a superb job at lingering upon her waist, uneasy with the awkward angle in which it was placed moving over her waist to rest on the patch of ground next to her, making it look like he were holding her in an embrace. Valentine realized this little fact and moved his hand once more, this time to get away from their previous position and to brush an errant lock of hair off her shoulder.

As abruptly as it began, his hand returned to his side and he let himself fall onto the ground. God, what was he doing? _What in hell was he doing?_ "Stop it, Valentine," he cried softly to himself in anguish. "You don't even know her! You're going mad. Just stop it."

"Hmm?"

At the sound of that, his eyes widened involuntarily and it suddenly felt like he had an elephant sitting on his chest. He'd woke her up. Had she noticed any of the things he'd been doing earlier? Did she know of how close to her he'd been? Or had she just woken up and thus, knew nothing of what had transpired?

"You know," she said brightly, a smile coming onto her sleepy face, "I've heard that talking to yourself is a sure fire sign of craziness."

"It's funny that you should say so, since you're the only person here who thinks she's going crazy," he bit off, replacing whatever it was he'd felt earlier on with anger. Cold, pure, unadulterated anger.

She got up and brought her knees up to her chest, pulling away from him, distancing herself from him as if he'd hit her. "Angel—" she started to say.

"Stop it!" The words were torn out of his mouth with so much venom that he was actually beginning to get angry with her. "Stop calling me that. I have a name and it's not Angel." When she cast her eyes towards a dandelion, his anger grew tenfold. He didn't understand why, but it just did and he wanted to lash out at her, to hurt her for continuously calling him by something he was not. "Look around yourself, girl. We are no longer in Paris. We came here via Portal. Doesn't that surprise you? Don't you have questions? How could you so blindly follow me here? You don't know of my intentions. Are you that daft?"

All his rage was packed into that last line, and he knew that it'd affected her somewhat because when she spoke, she did so softly, barely speaking above her breath. "You said you wanted to help me. I was frightened and then you came and you did your best to chase all my fears away. I knew I could trust you. You're my angel."

Valentine saw red. God, but he wanted to kill the girl! "Would an angel do this?" He didn't need to reach out very far to grab her by the shoulders and yank her towards him. Her eyes widened, just as his had, and her mouth formed an O of surprise, and that was all he saw before he crushed her body to his own and captured her mouth in a hard kiss, as if he was trying to brand her. She squealed into his mouth and tried to part from him, but his arms had moved down to her waist and there, they were like iron bands that have been welded specifically to fit her frame.

Her lips were soft against his, and for a moment, he'd quite forgotten his anger and was starting to enjoy what he'd initiated. He could feel the gentle swell of her breasts against his chest as they rose and fell in sync with her breathing. His lips, which at one point had been held tightly, harshly to hers, softened and he truly began to kiss her. His lips weren't just there and immobile, they were moving against hers, savouring the softness of every bit of her. And although he didn't want to, although he liked what he was doing just the way it was, something within him was urging him to move. So he dragged his lips away from her own, kissing up her jaw lightly until he reached the spot where her ear and neck met. He planted a quick, chaste kiss there, but it was enough to make her shiver and her hands moved to his shoulder, gripping them to keep herself upright. Meanwhile, one of his own hands snaked away from the small of her back and started to lift her dress inch by excruciating inch. He then rested it upon her bare thigh, the warmth of her shooting up his palm to enter his body as if carried by his blood stream.

"I'm not your angel," he heard himself say, but it sounded so detached that he was positive it wasn't him who'd said it, that it wasn't his voice carrying those words to her. He brought his lips back down to her cheek and kissed her firmly there, and sighed. "My name is Valentine, not Angel, and I'm not who you think I am," he whispered against her cheek, hoping with all he was that she could hear him. "I'm not a good person."

Her hands on his shoulder fell and this time, when she made to pull away, he let her.


	11. Chapter Ten

**A/N: So I kind of like this chapter. Lol, weird, I know. I'm hoping that you'll agree with me. So...there's not much to say here. I'm gonna be away for fifteen days, beginning this Saturday, so I'm going to try my best to get as many chapters as I can up this week. Uh...R&R!**

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He was ready to lunge at her and wrap his fingers around her neck—_tightly_. He would squeeze her very last breath right out of her. His hands around her neck would be so hard and merciless, he would snap her trachea and watch her eyes pop right out of their sockets. That's how angry he was with her. There were a million and one ways to kill her. No, no. There were a million and one ways to _slowly and painfully_ kill her. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, his dark eyes boring into the back of her head. "How could you not tell me?"

His coat was pulled tight about her shoulders even as she hunched them, and Valentine became livid. This had nothing to do with the fact that he'd kissed her. If that was the only reason why she hadn't spoken a word about it, he wouldn't have minded. In fact, he'd probably be mad with himself, knowing that he'd been the cause of her bearing that much pain. However, that wasn't the reason. They fell out of the Portal last night which meant that she'd aggravated her ankle last night which also meant that it had started swelling to the size of a balloon last night, _not_ this morning, and all of that made it perfectly clear to him that she was a fool.

They hadn't said anything to each other since she'd untangled her body from his, and that had been almost a quarter of an hour ago. He had been perfectly comfortable with the idea of not speaking to her ever, even after they'd gotten themselves to his family's home, but then he'd motioned to her that they should make a start while there was still so much light to be had and she'd yelped even before she'd been able to stand up properly. And then she fell, landing on her hands and knees, providing Valentine with a rather nice view of her derrière. He may have never had the inclination to acquire himself a lover, a girlfriend (whatever it is that it was being called these days) but he recognized the sudden surge of heat that had entered his person, and he felt ashamed for it. He brushed it off, and though he had his doubts of approaching her once more, when she uttered a soft "Ow", all resistance disappeared and he rushed to her side. He'd placed his hand on her upper arm, his coat preventing his skin from actually making contact with hers—thank the Angel!

And that was where he was now: next to her, his hand still on top of the jacket, and fury of all sorts stirring inside him. He sat down, folding his legs as elegantly as he could, given his closeness to the girl and his six foot frame. Whereas before his hand had merely been resting on her arm, now he gripped it and pulled her closer to him, slightly unnerved by how close she was once again, and sat her down in front of him. "I still find it hard to wrap my mind around the fact that you didn't bother to tell me about this," he said to her, his anger beginning to subside a little.

All was quiet between them as he took her injured ankle gingerly in his hands and placed it on his knee. He didn't want to touch her—there was an electric-like tingling in the tips of his fingers every time he did—and especially not so soon after he'd kissed her against her will, but faced with such a terrible injury which might've been less painful to her had she said something to him last night, he didn't have much of an option. He rubbed the pad of his thumb against the joint connecting her foot to her calf, otherwise known as her ankle, where the swelling also held traces of bruising, and she flinched. "Did it hurt? When I did that?" He looked up from her injury to gage a response, but she'd turned her face away. He should've known she wouldn't want to see him after what he'd done. "If you'd only said something earlier," he started.

"My ankle's the size of an elephant's. It is what it is. I don't think I'll die from it."

Valentine could feel his jaw drop the littlest bit at what she'd said. She spoke to him. She actually put together a string of words, formed a sentence and directed said sentence at him. He wasn't expecting that at all. He cleared his throat and began to rub her ankle again, "No, but the swelling could have been bad enough that it'd cut off the blood circulation in your foot."

He heard her murmur, "Oh," and proceeded to get a grip on her ankle the way he would hold his seraph blade, and squeezed. Hard.

Naturally, her response to the pain was to scream, and as expected, she made to move away from him, her leg jerking to get her injured ankle out of his hand. However, he was relentless and he held onto it, and she screamed yet again. A second later, tears trickled down her cheeks and she bit down on her lower lip in an attempt to come to terms with the pain pulsating endlessly from her ankle.

He set the offending body part down next to him and released his hold on it, getting up and making his way to a tree. Her eyes followed his movements and when he disappeared behind her, out of her line of vision, she turned her head and never once removed her gaze from him. He reached up above him, the movement causing his shirt to lift up and expose some of his skin. When he'd held her in his arms earlier, she could feel his biceps and the hard planes of his chest, so she knew he was fit, but to see the taut skin of his lower abdomen, the waistband of his trousers riding low on his hips, made it almost impossible to look away. She did manage to do so, however, and she looked up to see what he was doing.

Bad idea.

Instead of his body, she now saw his face, his brows furrowed as he wrapped his hands around a branch. There was something else there, though, aside from focus as he performed his task. For a brief moment, she thought she caught him glancing her way, and his eyes, which had been so hard when he snatched her into his embrace, softened and the firm line of his lips relaxed the smallest bit. But it was only a moment and in the next, she heard a snapping sound and watched him return to her.

She shouldn't be thinking this way, seeing everything he did as something more than what it actually was. She was just some girl he'd decided to help for God knows what reason and he'd kissed her even though she hadn't indicated that she wanted him to. He was a mean psychopath and her breath shouldn't catch every time he touched her. Like it was doing now.

The young man plopped back down to his original spot and proceeded to peel his torn shirt off of his body. He'd hoped he wouldn't have to. After having treated her the way he did earlier, having done what he did, keeping his shirt on to preserve her innocence seemed stupid, but he'd wanted to do so. Nonetheless, her foot needed to be put in a slab to restrict the movement, and since there was nothing available to him to bind the two branches to her foot at that precise moment, he had to take off his shirt.

Red. Her cheeks were so red when she saw what he was doing and he forced himself not to look at her. Valentine tore the seams of his shirt so it'd open up to a big piece of cloth and then wrapped it around her ankle loosely, wedging in the branches on either sides of her ankle leading up to her calf as gently as he could. He then tugged at the cloth resulting in its tightening, and finished bandaging her leg. "Is it too tight?" he asked.

This time, there was a response. She gave a small shake of her head and, satisfied with his handiwork, he got up, pulling her up along with him. She hissed as she stood up, unable to rest her injured foot flat on the ground. He could not have been more masochistic had he started hitting himself with a bat, but he picked her up anyway and started walking. He'd grown up in the Shadowhunter capital and he knew his way around both the city as well as its outer perimeter. He'd been this far out only twice in the seventeen years he's lived, but he was sure that he remembered the way back to the city. From there, he shouldn't have a problem making his way back to the manor.

Everything passed by him in a blur as he moved as quickly as he could through the forest to make it back to the city. He barely noticed the trees he'd walked by. He barely noticed anything, really, save for his weaving through trees and ducking under low-hanging branches on his home-bound route. He was, however, glad that his mind was so busy mapping out a path because not too long after, he was no longer registering what he was carrying as a girl he'd kidnapped and then taken advantage of. Instead, she was merely a weight that he had to keep in his arms until he reached his house.

Two hours later, he reached a small dirt road, and something inside him was nagging at him to take it, holding onto a vague memory from his childhood of a path that looked exactly like the one he was on converging with the road to the manor. "It's very beautiful here," she said, her voice softer than usual, looking up at the face of the man whom, to her, was the very embodiment of everything that left her confused. "Where is here?"

"This is my country. This is Idris." He said each word carefully, as if he'd never used them before. He could feel her eyes on him and damn it, he wanted to look at her, too. And he wanted to apologize. Not for being so harsh to her and not for kissing her without her okay—although perhaps he did want to apologize for that as well—but for actually enjoying it. He liked kissing her and he wanted to kiss her again.

"I've never heard of it."

"It's not on the map. It's not on any map."

She laughed, a low, melodious sound. "How is that possible?" He kept his eyes trained on the road ahead, his face a blank mask. "It's a secret country?" He still didn't look at her. "Like a spy's headquarters. No one knows where a spy's headquarters is. It's like they don't exist." For a second, he looked away and she thought that he was going to look at her and give her some type of response. He could stare at her seriously, grimly or he could say that she shouldn't indulge in such fantasies—but he didn't. He shifted his gaze to his right for a little bit, and then it was back to looking at a dirt road without blinking. "You could be, like, James Bond and this place could be the MI6's top secret facility for their very special agents."

James Bond. James Bond. James Bond. The name sounded familiar to him. He knew that he was some mundane or another, highly praised for his skills and whatnot. He could take him, though. He knew it. James Bond—whoever he was—was a mere human and he was a Nephilim. A highly trained Nephilim at that.

Once more, silence took them into her embrace and unlike before, when he'd simply allowed time and preoccupancy to take his mind off of her, this time he made an effort to speed up the process. _"With impetuous recoil and jarring sound, th' infernal doors, and on their hinges grate harsh thunder that the lowest bottom shook. Of Erebus, she opened, but to shut excelled her power; the gates wide open."_ It didn't take very long for him to take his mind off of her, and it took only a few more moments before he managed to numb himself completely to his surroundings. There might've been a bird sitting on his shoulder, pecking violently at his ear, and he wouldn't have cared. Thankfully, there was no bird. All that was present was silence, and he eagerly rushed into her waiting arms.

He couldn't have known how long he walked, what with the absence of his watch and his utter determination to not notice anything, but his vision was greeted by the sight of a carriage bearing the Morgenstern emblem racing towards them. He stopped where he was and watched quietly as the carriage got ever closer, slowed down and finally rolled to a halt in front of him. "Master Valentine! It is you! One of the watch reported that he'd seen you walking towards the manor. We didn't believe it, any of us, because you weren't supposed to be back until tomorrow. I'm happy I came out here, though." The driver jumped down and opened the carriage door. "Please, sir, make haste. We cannot have you standing out in the open air, dressed as you are. You'll catch a cold."

Valentine stepped into the carriage. It was a little tricky to do so with the girl still in his arms, but he managed it and he set her down on the seat diagonal to where he would be seated. The Morgenstern carriage was big, but it wasn't nearly big enough for him to feel comfortable with the distance he'd been able to put between him and the girl. Were he to reach out, he could probably touch her knee with the tip of his index finger. Outside, the driver shut the door with finesse and grace, and he said not a word about the girl his master had brought with him and for that, Valentine was grateful. The Morgenstern household boasted some of the most discreet help, and in the face of what he'd done, he was glad for it. There had been an unspoken rule in his home ever since his father's passing—if the master doesn't speak of it, then no one shall.

He sank back into the chair, catching just a glimpse of her before he closed his eyes. She'd been looking at him again, her hands turning into fists in her lap. When they reached his home, which shouldn't be too far from here if he'd been spotted by the watch, he'd put her in a guest bedroom and ignore her. As long as she was in his house, he could keep her safe and he wouldn't need her help to figure out what was happening to her.

Cottages and rose bushes began to spring up outside the carriage, almost as if they'd appeared out of thin air. However, he knew them to be the houses of the tenants. Morgenstern manor sported one of the largest estates in all of Idris, and people tended to build their homes on his father's—on_ his_ land due to the care and security provided. Within minutes, the sprawling manor itself came into view, its dark windows restricting any insight into the lives of its inhabitants even as the soft yellow and white of the structure gave an impression of happiness and hospitality.

He could feel the carriage slowing down, and he hoped that his mother was locked up in his father's study as she'd been for most days since the man had been killed. Valentine didn't know what she did in there, and he didn't want to know. It was easier to get on with his life if he pretended that his mother still smiled when she saw him. There was a tap on the outer wall of the carriage, signifying that they'd reached their destination. Shortly after, the door swung open and he could see the driver again. He knew now what he was going to do.

"Ivan, see to it that my guest has a room to retire to and provide her with some clothes. She's injured her ankle rather severely, but I want no physicians. Search instead within the house for someone who knows how to deal with sprains and the like. Have a bath drawn for me and have my sheets turned down, then leave me. I am not to be disturbed." And with that, he exited the carriage, leaving the girl with Ivan. She was watching him, he knew. He probably shouldn't have left her just like that, but the sooner he got away from her, the better. For him. And for her. Mostly for her. Or him. He wasn't making sense right now.

The great oak double doors that led into his house were open. He made a beeline for it, but behind him, he could hear her apologizing for causing everyone so much trouble and that it wasn't necessary for Ivan to carry her. "Ignore her," his own voice chimed in his head. "Just ignore her. She's better off without you anyway. Remember what you said? You're not a good person."

Valentine shoved his hands into his pockets, realizing that he must look every bit the jester, sulking around with no shirt on, but he ignored everything. He ignored her and he ignored his aching wrist, and he entered his home like he were a ticked off Zeus, thunderous and wanting to spear down everything he saw. He took the steps two at a time and when he reached the top, he made a right and walked down the hallway. Portraits of his ancestors lined the walls flanking him and he looked at each and every one of them as he walked by. He wondered if any of them had ever imagined a day when their descendant, their flesh and blood, would commit a crime—both in the mundane world and in their world—and then come close to raping a girl, which is yet another felony, and then feel like falling onto the ground in a sad, pathetic heap of self-pity all because he wanted to hold her again. And again. And again. And again.

He reached his deceased father's portrait and stopped completely. Standing before it, Valentine clasped his hands behind him out of habit, and he simply stared at the one thing he and his father never shared—deep set blue eyes. He could only imagine what his father would think if he were alive now and found out of his only son's exploits. Jonathan Morgenstern would be furious and disappointed and tell him that nothing good could possibly come out of what he's done. And maybe his father would be right. But Valentine would defy him on that and continue trying to help the girl anyway.

God, but she was doing things to him that he never thought possible. He went on his way to the end of the hallway and came face to face with his bedroom's door. He twisted the doorknob and let himself in. The windows were barred out of sight by the heavy curtains, drawn and allowing not a slither of light to enter, and a single, dim witchlight illuminated his room. Good, he thought. At least his room mirrored exactly the way he felt. He approached an armchair and then let himself fall gracelessly into it. His plan had been to ignore her the minute he returned home and work things out on his own, but by the Angel, his head was spinning. He didn't know the first place to start looking for answers!

"Master?" Valentine looked to the door to see a woman standing in the doorway, a lock of her brown hair resting next to her cheek, somehow having managed to escape the tight bun the rest of it had been put in. Through the dim light, she was only a faceless woman with brown hair—and his heart palpitated for the shortest time when the passing thought of it being her hit him. But, of course, it wasn't her. "Master, Ivan sent me up to draw a bath for you and ready your bed for use. Which would you like me to tend to first?"

He swept his arm in the direction of his bed and she scurried to it, fluffing his pillows and doing whatever else it was she did that made his bed so comfortable to sleep in. "For God's sake, Valentine! Not all brown-haired girls are her." There it was again, his stupid voice ringing in his mind. He was right, though. There were millions of brunettes in this world and they can't all be her every single time he looked at them.

"Where is she?" he suddenly asked, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them. The maid turned to look at him, and opened her mouth to voice the question he knew she was going to ask. A single syllable was uttered by her before he got out of the chair, ran a hand through his hair exasperatedly and said, "My guest. The girl I brought home. Where is she?"

"I saw Ivan steering her upstairs, Master Valentine. I imagine she's in one of the guest bedrooms."

He didn't realize it when he started walking, so strong was the urge to see her. He needed to speak to her. He didn't know what reason he would have to see her and to expect her to say something back. He couldn't ask her about the people hunting her right now, not when she was most likely to be recovering from their journey. Perhaps he could apologize to her. For kissing her, not for the other thing. He couldn't tell her about that. He moved swiftly up the second flight of stairs and pushed open every door he came across, peering inside for any signs of her. Three doors later and he found her, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling.

Although nothing in his house creaked, and this door certainly was no exception, she heard it open and she turned onto her side and propped herself up on her elbow, the neckline of her hospital dress dipping a little to reveal her collarbone. "Angel," she said. Her voice was soft, but it travelled through the room and snaked into his ears, hitting him as if someone had delivered him a blow.

Valentine pulled a chair out from under the desk and brought it with him to her bedside where he put it down and sat. He took her hand in his, looking elsewhere—anywhere!—to avoid her eyes. "I wanted to…"

There was something underneath her collarbone, almost to her chest. His eyes zeroed in on it—part of a black marking, a rune. He moved forward in his chair and grabbed her by the shoulders, seeing memories of him doing the exact same thing to her in the woods. Her face displayed her shock and when he bunched up some of the fabric of the dress's neckline in his hands, she screamed his name, knowing what he was about to do. "_Valentine!"_

He tugged fiercely, harshly at the material and it tore with a single ripping sound that seemed to drag on forever. The black of her bra peeked out from underneath the torn dress and he had just enough time to get a good look at the rune before he felt a sharp sting to his cheek. She'd slapped him. She pulled the covers up over her shoulders and said through clenched teeth, enunciating every word, "Get. Out."

So he did. He got himself out of her room and sent himself down the stairs, along the hallway and back into his own bedroom, entering his bathroom, stripping down and sinking into the bath tub. It was a simple rune—an X with a horizontal oval at the crossing of the two lines. He'd seen that rune before, he was sure of it. He just didn't remember where.


	12. Chapter Eleven

**A/N: HELLO FROM BAHRAIN! I am currently waiting for my flight to Saudi to arrive. Anyways, a large portion of this chapter was written in the airplane, when I had absolutely nothing to do. That being said, forgive me if this chapter sucks and if there are tons of errors and whatnot. As usual, R&R!**

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He was going to kill Ivan for pounding on his door this early in the morning. Didn't the man know that he'd just returned from a journey of epic proportions—going on a vampire hunt, breaking into a hospital, kidnapping a girl, fighting unknown creatures and carrying said kidnapped girl all the way here, to his home? For once in his life, Valentine didn't feel guilty for lying all day in his bed, ignoring his responsibilities as a student and the man of the house. And just this one time, he wanted to treasure all the sleep he was able to obtain, but _no_. Everyone just had to bother him and remind him that time waited for no one, not man, not woman, and that he should get to his duties as soon as possible.

He could only imagine that that was the reason why the infernal knocking had not stopped. Hadn't he issued orders not to be bothered?

"Ugh, go away," he turned onto his side and grunted into his pillow. His body felt like it was devoid of any energy. Even if he'd wanted to—which he didn't—he wouldn't have been able to drag himself out of bed. And the weight of his eyelids at that exact moment could rival that of a dinosaur. But there it was again! That stupid _tap, tap, tap_ on the surface of his door! "Leave me be!" This time, he fairly yelled the words.

The door swung open, and he heard a swoosh, rather like one wind would produce, as a result of it being opened so forcefully before the sound of it slamming into the wall echoed in his room. Valentine pulled his covers over his head, trying to find that elusive peace and quiet he needed so badly. Much to his chagrin, his only defense against the annoyingly awake world was torn from his body. Never mind the fact that the warmth he'd enjoyed so earlier was gone now. He simply wanted to keep his eyes closed and his mind numb from any thoughts, so much so that if the intruder were to place the blanket back over his person, he'd consider forgiving him.

"Good God, you're not dressed."

And that was when he shot out of bed, the positively female voice finally breaking through his zombie-like haze of utter and complete exhaustion. He saw red hair before him, and he felt his thighs to ascertain that he at least had pants on. After he'd soaked in his bath last night, he'd been so tired and uneasy that he'd gone straight to bed. He didn't even remember stepping into a pair of trousers. He was grateful for small favours, though.

The young man grunted again, somewhat giving voice to his less-than-kind feelings towards this whole situation. "Jocelyn, what on earth are you doing here at this ungodly hour?" Even as he said it, he moved to his closet and proceeded to retrieve a shirt, pulling it over his head and tugging it down to cover the rest of his upper body. There were certain things, after all, that Jocelyn Fairchild shouldn't see.

"Ungodly is right. It's already half past nine in the evening, Valentine. You've gone and slept the whole day away. And yesterday, too!" She tried as best she could to put forth the exasperation she felt in the words she spoke.

"It is night? Devil take it, I could've sworn I'd fallen asleep not an hour ago." Or at least he _felt_ like he'd acquired only an hour of sleep. He was so tired still.

Her face displayed vividly how much she wanted to hit him, and his own showed that he didn't much care about what she wanted to do. If she slapped him, he'd have her forcibly removed from his land. The only person who could get away from meeting such a fate after laying a hand on him, and _had_ gotten away, was the girl upstairs. He touched his fingers to his cheek where her hand had landed. He couldn't throw her out of his house for hitting him, though. It was his fault. You are such an idiot sometimes, he thought to himself. Why wouldn't she slap him? He practically tore her clothing in half! She was probably sitting up in bed and regretting her decision to come with him, or perhaps she was combing her hair and pondering the reasons why she'd agreed to let him help her.

It scared him a little that he could imagine her doing either one of those things so clearly—especially the bit about her combing her hair, an action which he'd never witness her partake in before. And now he was repeating himself again, unable to keep himself from allowing that one thought to stand out in his mind: she was doing things to him he'd never thought possible. And he wasn't sure how he felt about it. He should go apologize to her, though. In the space of a day—_half_ a day, actually—he'd kissed her and torn her clothing, revealing to himself a part of her body she would never wish for a man to see, much less a man she didn't know at all.

He sounded like an ass, a jerk. _He_ thought he was. He truly should go apologize.

Valentine rubbed his eyes, trying to rid himself of the sleepiness that was so adamant to stay there. He stifled a yawn, deciding then and there that he would go back to bed the minute Jocelyn left. "It was very nice of you to stop by and let yourself into my room without my permission," he said to her, emphasizing on the part about her impermissibly entering his bedroom. She blushed a deep scarlet and cast her eyes downward, towards his bare feet. "However, as you have mentioned, it is well past nine in the evening, certainly not a time for a lady to be in a man's home, her chaperone absent, and most definitely the worst of times to be alone with a man in his private chambers. I think you should go home now, Jocelyn."

"Um, yeah. I'll…go home. Now. I just thought I'd remind you that school's in session tomorrow and, well, don't you have any assignments to finish up?"

Plans of being a dead weight in his bed went flying out the window, landing on the hard ground with a cruel shatter. He could hear it. He did have some work to be dealt with. A history assignment, to be precise.

"Well, I'll be going now. Yeah, I'll be going. Now. Home. Where my parents are. I'll see you in school. Tomorrow." Jocelyn seemed unable to make up her mind about what to say to him, and he eyed her strangely, almost as though he were asking her if she was alright. She chose to ignore it. She was embarrassed enough as it already was. "So, yeah, I should go home now. So, uh, yeah, I'll see you tomorrow."

"Jocelyn, you're repeating yourself," he said quietly.

She bit down on her tongue, and gave him a curt nod as opposed to the 'goodbye' she'd already thought of, and made her way out of his room, her footsteps a little bit too fast for her liking.

For his part, Valentine hardly noticed her weird behaviour as she exited the premise of his family's manor. He was instead preoccupied with the thought of wrapping up his homework as soon as he possibly could. He was in a great love affair with his bed and he shouldn't like to leave her—it for too long. He sighed, the long-suffering kind, and made his way to the shelf in which he kept all school-related items. "Oh, come now!" he cried after scanning the shelf and not spotting his history text book or his notebook. He grabbed his backpack from the lowest level, coming close to deflating when he found out that his bag was completely empty. He glared daggers at the inanimate object and spat hatefully at it as if it were his worst enemy, "I hate you."

Unable to find his book and finding it increasingly harder to stay away from his bed—no, seriously, he kept going to it as if they were opposite polls of a magnet—he knew he had to move. He had to get out of his room. Perhaps he was endlessly tired because of the fact that he was in his bedroom, where his bed was only a few feet away from him at best. When he left, and when he couldn't see the coveted piece of furniture, maybe the exhaustion would disappear with it. After all, how tired could he be if he'd been asleep through most of yesterday and today?

He padded across the floor in quick, silent steps, made easier by the absence of shoes of any kind, and opened the door to let himself out. There really was not much to do from there but walk along the hallway until he reached the two flights of stairs, one leading up and the other leading down. Mayhap his books were in the library. That was the last place he'd been in before he left for Paris and if his memory served him correctly, he'd been trying to finish his homework. Again.

Sounds wafted down the corridor upstairs, carrying her voice to him as he reached the landing. He stood there, both hands clasped on the railing, facing an empty space between the two flights of stairs. He'd concluded that he should go apologize to her, but now that he was here, a mere minute away from the room she'd been making her own, the room in which he'd very nearly tore her dress clean off of her person, the idea no longer appealed to him as much. Behind that entire hesitance, though, was the nagging reminder that he'd given her the impression that he was trying to take advantage of her (once more), and that truly hadn't been what he had wanted to accomplish. She was probably frightened witless of him right now. That or she hated his guts and entertained thoughts of slitting his throat in his sleep.

It was faint mumblings, her words. He hadn't actually registered them as intelligible, English words when he had first heard her speaking. The sudden panic that followed the surge of protective instincts as he instantly thought of her incoherent mumbling in the bookstore sent him racing up at least five steps before rendering him paralyzed at that fifth step, listening to her footsteps as they got closer and closer and closer to the stairs. He turned on his heel and moved down the steps as fast as he could, hoping his footsteps were still silent. When he felt like he wasn't moving fast enough to get to the bottom of the stairs and make a run for the library, he jumped off of the step he was on to sail past the remaining ones and come back on his two feet, solid ground underneath them, at the foot of the stairs.

A maid had been crossing at that time and looked up at him, puzzled by his childlike behaviour, and he took absolutely no notice of it. The library was on the far end of the west wing, and the thought of it now struck him as if taunting him to run a marathon. There were other places he could go, places which were closer, but with her ankle, the unlikeliest of places for her to be was the library. Aside that fact, she was also new here and indisposed as she was, she wouldn't be exploring his house and stumbling upon his library. And hadn't he wanted something from the library? He couldn't remember it at the top of his head right at that moment, but he was pretty sure he wanted something from there.

Valentine looked up and saw her hair swinging back and forth and heard mindless chatter as she was being helped down the first flight of stairs. There probably wasn't any reason for him to have run away like he did. It wasn't like she would've been able to catch up with him anyway. He should start relaxing. He should start relaxing now and walk—_walk_, not run—to the library, and that was what he did which left him in front of the arch serving as the library's entrance. He could see the giant oak—was everything in his house oak?—table, placed in line with the entryway, his favourite spot to be a regular student and get through the assignments teachers gave him in as quick a time as possible. On that table, he could see white sheets of paper stacked neatly in a pile, a closed book next to it with the black of his pencil case on top of it.

He didn't want to do homework. He really didn't want to. He hated the thought of it. Unfortunately, school was an unwelcomed prospect for the next day and he had to get all his work done. There was an essay to be written about the Trinity Covenant of 1796 and by the Angel, he was going to finish it tonight and relish the time he'd have with his bed. And tomorrow, he could leave for the Academy ridiculously early in the morning, when none but the help would be awake, conveniently avoiding the girl.

The student in him took over and he took a seat at the table, his shoulder still sore and his left hand still aching. _"This covenant, however, proved to be an effort that everyone would soon regret."_ He read the last sentence he'd managed to pen down before half of the Circle came pouring into his library, demanding that he start to make a move. Hopefully, this paper wouldn't be quite as hard to write as the one he'd had last week. It was already past nine in the evening and if it turned out that this paper was going to make him murder his brain, he had doubts about being able to return to his room before midnight.

For the next hour or so, words swam in Valentine's head, in his eyes, in his ears as he formed sentences in his mind as if he'd spoken them before, read them before. The paper was easier than most, and he could remember perfectly the amount of times he'd been forced to get out of his seat and hunt down a book for reference—exactly two times. Presently, he was flipping through pages of his text book, his eyes skimming over the words to find that one information he needed for a specific bit of his essay.

They had learnt of a letter written to the Clave while on this chapter, although Winthrop had been remiss in his lesson, not naming the author of the letter. Perhaps he should mention that letter in his essay, important as it was to the Trinity Covenant's failure. The book before him was a text book, for God's sake! It should contain some type of information of the mysterious writings of a mysterious man. And maybe he should pull his book closer to make it easier to read.

He skimmed and skimmed and skimmed and then skimmed some more—and came close to missing the inky rune on one of the pages. He flipped back to it immediately. He slammed his hand down on the table in realization, the pen he'd been holding earlier rolling across the flat top of the table only to fall off the edge and land on the carpeted floor of the library. Last night, while he'd been lying in his bath, trying to get his body to release all the tension he'd kept inside it, he'd known that he had seen the rune on her chest somewhere, and now here it was, in his history text book.

The book suddenly became more interesting and he read aloud the small words under the picture of the rune, "A rune made to symbolize the sturdiness of an ox and the circle of life belonging to the warlock Mag—" He couldn't say it. His heart slammed into his chest and his stomach did all kinds of flips imaginable.

The young man got up quickly, pushing the chair he was in backwards in the process, but then it caught on the material of the rug, friction causing it to stop completely. He realized this too late, unfortunately, and he fell back into the chair, his whole body thrown off balance, the force with which he hit the back of the chair tipping it on two of its hind legs, and he went crashing onto the floor. "Master Valentine!" someone cried from outside.

Really now, he needed to get a door for this god damned place.

That someone rushed to his side and bent down to help him up, and then straightened again, and simply stood there, unsure of what to do. He twisted his torso and braced his hands against the carpet, pushing himself up, his legs soon following suit the movement of the rest of him. When he was no longer lying flat on his back, Valentine gave a small nod of acknowledgement to the someone who'd tried to help him, and began making his way to the arch. He had to get her _now_ and they had to leave_ now_. If she didn't want to come with him willingly, then he would just pick her up and fling her onto the first horse he saw.

"You are such an arrogant twat," he heard her say before his mind even began to register the girl standing in the dark corner as her. "She saw you fall and immediately went to help you and all you did was nod?"

Valentine blinked once. And then he blinked again. And again after that. She was real, alright. She was standing in front of him, hands on her hips, the very picture of the phrase 'hell hath no fury like a woman scorned'. Except he didn't think he'd done anything to scorn her. Well, he did do something yesterday, but this was now and she was berating him for nodding at his maid?

Her chest rose and fell rapidly, as if she was doing everything in her power to keep her rage inside of herself and not breathe fire. "The least you could've done was thank her. The woman ran to your side like you were her child, and you didn't even look at her. I know you're some big shot, rich guy, and that this palace of a house belongs to you, but you can't treat people like that. I don't care if she does work for you." So she wasn't breathing fire—but she was throwing daggers at him. And he was too angry to even begin to feel shocked at her outburst.

"Leave us," he said to the maid still inside the library, and she scurried away, the material of her uniform rustling as she darted behind him and down the corridor to get away from what seemed like a very angry Shadowhunter. His hands balled into fists at his side and he could feel his nails digging into his skin, and he clenched them tighter, grinding his teeth together. "How are you faring?"

"After you violated me yesterday afternoon? Oh, fine, thank you. Care to do it again?"

He could hear the anger in her voice and it only served to increase his. At that moment, he could think of saying only one thing, "Stop."

"Stop reminding you that you're an insane individual with tendencies to rip girls' clothes off of them? Or did you want me to stop reminding you that that was the second time you've done something of that sort to me?"

She was all that he saw and he exerted enough brain power trying to figure out her name to make his frontal lobe explode. He wanted to shout her name. Maybe then she'd shut up. But of course, she'd be angry. She should be more than furious with him. She should want to rip his throat out with her bare hands. She should want to do all sorts of horrible things to him, and he deserved everything she would dish out. He closed the distance between them, unable to fight off the need to be closer to her. He took her hand, just as he had in the room, and put his lips to her knuckles. "I'm sorry," he murmured against her skin, and kissed her hand again.

The girl made to pull her hand out of his and he let it slip away. She said nothing and the uneasiness in his chest grew. "You have every right to hate me and not trust me," he said to her. "I won't contradict you on that. What I did yesterday was unforgivable and what I'd done before that was…uh…"

"Unforgivable multiplied by a hundred?" she offered.

He nodded vigorously. "And what I did before, in the woods, was deserving of every brand of punishment and torture the world could possibly offer. I truly am sorry." He looked at her, looked into her eyes. There was a kind of weariness in them. "You have to believe me."

Valentine had never heard silence quite as loud as the one they were experiencing now. She was chewing on the inside of her lip, making an attempt at deciding whether or not to accept his apology. He took her hand again, completely oblivious to the fact that he had. "Why did you do it?" she asked, her eyes never meeting his.

"The mark you have on your body is a rune. Since the first time I met you, I've told you that I want to help you. When I saw a black scrawling, I couldn't—I should've been more tactful about it."

"And the kiss? In the forest?"

_I just did that because I felt like it, because you were getting on my nerves and I wanted to kiss you. I still want to kiss you._ "I don't know." And technically, it wasn't a lie. He didn't know why he'd kissed her. And then, just as an afterthought, he tacked on, "I try not to make it a habit to kiss people I don't know."

Her lips cracked the grim line it had been set in, and she gave him a small smile. "You're certain of this?" But all wasn't well between them. Not everything anyway, and she took her hand out of his, leaving him to stare at it as if it were a foreign object. "Quite frankly, I don't know what in the hell is going on with me, and I suppose that would make your task a little difficult." He opened his mouth to say something, but she didn't see it, and continued, "Valentine," his name on her tongue felt strange, "what happened in Paris was real, right? I'm not losing my mind?"

He suddenly saw the whole thing with more clarity. It wasn't just the people hunting her that she was afraid of. A large part of her terror was the thought of going crazy, losing her ability to stay sane. "I promise you, everything that's happened is real."

"Including that portal thing?" The young man gave her a look, and she gave him a tiny nod. "I don't know if I can trust you."

"You've trusted me before. Why stop now?" His voice was much too loud for his liking, as if he didn't quite enjoy the thought of her lack of faith in him. Now might be a good time to tell her about the rune, he thought. "I've learned of something. It is regarding the rune."

She laughed, a cruel laugh, though it was directed at herself. "I've had it for as long as I can remember. I thought it was just a cool birthmark or something. Stupid, huh?"

"No, not stupid. You didn't know what it was." He felt the odd need to comfort her, and that last sentence was a feeble attempt at doing so. "We have to go back to Paris. It's where the person who gave you the rune is."

The girl slammed back into the wall, the impact causing her to think that she'd altered the position of her internal organs. She didn't want to go back to Paris. They'd still be waiting for her there. Were she to return, they'd surely come for her, and this time, they'd send more people and Valentine wouldn't be able to hold them off. He'd die and she'd be taken to God-knows-where, having God-knows-what being done to her. He could die. Somehow, the realization of that made her more afraid than being captured and going completely bonkers combined. She started to shake her head, and he captured her face in his hands, effectively ending the movement and giving her no choice but to look at him. "I will protect you, I swear. No harm will come to you." She blinked back tears and started to shake her head again, but his hold on her was strong, and she couldn't move. However, he did feel the tiny movement from her and said, "I know you don't want to and I understand why, but we must go back. Therein lies what might be the key to keeping you safe."

She still didn't look convinced. "What's stopping you?" he asked her gently, his thumb caressing her cheek. "Fear?" She moved not a muscle, but her eyes were beginning to sparkle with tears. He didn't need her to nod or say anything to know that that was what bothered her. "You have to trust me now. You have to take my word for it when I say that I won't let anything happen to you."

But he'd let anything happen to himself was what he'd left unspoken.

"When do we leave then?" her voice was so quiet when she spoke that had it not been for their close proximity, he wouldn't have heard anything she sad. He did, though, and he wrapped an arm around her waist to aid her in the walk back to the main wing.

The fluttering he normally felt in his stomach migrated to his chest, and it was such a new thing for him that he almost didn't recognize it as happiness. But he was happy. Truly, undeniably, incredibly happy. Once they were in Paris, they'd have another piece of this puzzle they were trying to solve. It could provide them with so many answers to the questions they had.

And Magnus Bane was going to give them those answers.


	13. Chapter Twelve

**A/N: So in the beginning of this chapter, I was all, "WHOOOOOOOO! Finally! Something good." So, safe to say that I like the first half of my chapter. Towards the end...nyeh, not so much. So, for the hundredth time, I'm sorry. But I really like the first half so I hope you guys like that one at least. :DD**

**PS: I'm in Saudi Arabia now! HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII! :)))**

* * *

Honestly, he didn't know why he'd expected it to be hard to get information as pertains to the warlock's lodgings. It _was_ Magnus Bane, after all, and everyone, Shadowhunter, Downworlder and Demon, knew that he was one of the oldest Downworlders alive. It made sense for everyone to know where he was.

And now, standing in front of the abandoned warehouse just outside of Paris, Valentine wasn't quite sure whether to kick the door open and stride in pompously or simply turn the handle and walk inside, staying incognito the whole time. He could hear the faint sound of music from behind the heavy doors, and knew that there would be enough Downworlders inside to populate a whole other planet. He grimaced, not particularly cherishing the thought.

"I believe there is a bit of a gathering going on in there," he said to her, dialing his voice down to a softer volume to not alert the creatures inside as to his presence, turning his head to look at her.

"You mean a party? Thank you very much for stating the obvious. I actually can't hear the music blasting inside from only a few inches away from you," she deadpanned, her expression matching her tone.

Valentine felt his cheeks heat up as blood rushed into them. She made him feel ridiculously inexperienced, and he had a feeling that she was the only one who could ever do that to him. She was the only one who could ever do multiple things to him, things that she shouldn't be able to, that he shouldn't allow her to be able to. And heaven only knew how many 'able to's he'd used in the formulation of that one thought. So, apparently, along with making him feel like a green boy, she also decreased the size of his vocabulary.

"You don't suppose we could just walk in, do you?" she asked him, and he felt a smile coming onto his face when he recognized the chance to redeem himself in her eyes.

It was a Downworlder affair, and it was bound to be a rowdy one. If they walked in, looking like they were, everyone was going to stare and wonder who in the hell they were, and it wouldn't take them long to make out the markings on his skin. No, they couldn't just walk in. Or at least he couldn't, not in his Shadowhunter gear. They'd pounce on him the minute he stepped in, and just like that, as if the Angel had snapped his fingers, the opportunity to make himself seem more capable to her was lost to him. "You could, but I'm afraid I will encounter some problems were I to enter."

She bit her lower lip—it was cute, how often she did that—in a bid to keep her laughter from bursting forth, and though he should want to kill her for embarrassing him, his smile appeared with full force. He liked it when she acted the way she was doing now. It meant that the kiss they'd shared in the woods was far from her mind. "You're not dressed for a party," she said quickly, and then bit down on her lip again. "_Ouch!_" Much too forcefully it seemed.

He covered the distance between them, and he did it in a second because, really, three inches wasn't that far. In that half stride he'd taken, he became close enough to her to feel the warmth radiating off of her person and it caused him to shiver. Blessedly, she hadn't noticed, so preoccupied was she with the stinging pain in her lip and the taste of a rusty saltiness on her tongue. There hadn't been a need to reach out and touch her—he could see the small amount of dark liquid on her bottom lip clearly from where he was—but he did, running the tip of his index finger along the line of her mouth. He was very nearly ready to play the part of Captain Obvious again and tell her that she was bleeding, but he was cut short by her. "You shouldn't do that, touching me the way that you did."

Every part of his conscious mind screamed at him to apologize, wanting to shake his whole body and get him to tell her he was sorry, but their attempts were futile because all he said was, "I know."

"You know," she said softly, repeating his statement.

He wanted her to look at him. He wanted to see her eyes, wanted to know what she was feeling, if she was as conflicted as he was or if she simply hated him. She was making everything so much harder for him. Where had his emotional restraint run off to, for God's sake?

The girl took a step away from him, and wiped the blood from her lip with the back of her hand. "Since you're not dressed properly," she said, her fingers working nimbly on the buttons of her over-sized shirt, "we have to improvise." She'd finished her work on her shirt, having deftly undone the row of buttons, and began to peel it off her body.

Valentine grabbed her arm, effectively ending her movements, and he pulled the two halves of the button-down shirt back together, covering any part of her figure that might've been exposed. His mind raced with a thousand different reasons she shouldn't have done that and a thousand different ways he should scold her, but he couldn't give voice to any of them, and when she practically tore the article of clothing off her body, determined as she was, he felt a slight shift in his pants and squeezed his eyes shut. He hated her.

He hated her.

The pale blue of her camisole was in stark contrast to the dark fabric of her pencil jeans and seemed oddly out of place when compared to her red ballet flats. Standing against the backdrop of the night, she looked like any other mundane, normal and enjoying her time about town. But there was apprehension in her eyes and that served as a reminder to him that they were here for a reason, that he should stop looking at her as a girl who did extraordinary things to him and start looking at her as a mission because that was what she was—a mission that he had to complete.

She handed him her shirt and he put it on, following her instructions to leave the buttons undone and roll the sleeves up. The pale scars running up his arms worried her, and she hoped to God that the lighting in the warehouse would be the same as any club; dark and giving no opportunities to even catch a glimpse of the odd-looking marks on him. She saw the dark scrawling that stood out painfully against his skin, against the crisp whiteness of the shirt, at the same time he remembered of that one rune on the side of his neck that had yet to fade. They looked to each other, as if expecting the other to come up with an idea to hide it. She stood stock still, making no move at all, nothing to indicate that she might have the slightest clue as to how they would keep the rune out of sight.

"We don't have to go in. We could just go back to your country and—we could just leave Paris," she offered.

Presented with any other circumstance, he would've said that there was truth to her words, but tonight, there was none. They may never obtain quite as easy an opportunity as this. The answers to her questions, to his questions, were beyond that door and he'd sooner be damned to the darkest pits of hell than let that go. She'd been looking over her shoulder the whole way here, afraid that those _things_ might come back after her. He wasn't about to give her a reason to run away.

And then somehow, a solution came from that train of thought, and he grabbed her, pulling her body flush against his, a movement he was now familiar with. She parted her lips and began to speak, but if she could cut him off, then he damn well could, too. "Wrap your arms around my neck and look up at me when we enter the structure."

Stunned, she complied without a moment's hesitation. He reached down to remove the straps on his thigh holding an array of weapons in place and removed a hunting knife from it before tossing the rest behind a small wooden crate. He glanced at the star on the hilt of the blade, the Morgenstern emblem, and then slipped the weapon, still in its sheath, past the waistband of her jeans, the hunting knife lodging perfectly in her pants, the hilt hidden inside her camisole. Should anything happen, he could easily retrieve the weapon and get them out. His hands came to rest just a few millimeters away from her derrière, and he left them there.

All Shadowhunter now, he allowed himself no feelings as he pushed the door open and felt her move in synchronization with him, her body rubbing against his. The loud music assaulted his ears, leaving him with a haunting feeling that he'd damaged his ear drums, and he turned his eyes onto her. She'd looked up at him, just as he told her to, and he flashed her his most dazzling smile. It was only after her heart had skipped at least two beats that she realized what he was doing, that she realized his plan. They were meant to look like they were in love.

Something gnawed at the pit of her stomach, and she thought that it felt like nausea but not quite so unpleasant, and returned his smile, adding a giggle to make it more believable.

She's good, he thought, and steered her through the body of people to trap her against the wall and himself as he had outside the library. This was it. If he did this, the façade they were putting on would go for gold. With that thought in mind, a reminder that he was on a mission, he bent down the littlest bit and angled his head just the right way to nestle into the crook of her neck and planted a passionate, lingering kiss there. He heard her gasp, felt her arms tighten about his neck, and he pulled her closer as he kissed up her throat to her cheek, and moving upwards some more, towards her closed eye. He feathered kisses along the same path again and slipped his hand into her camisole, the cold metal of the knife's hilt telling him over and over again that this was a mission. He stroked the small of her back, his lips now on her neck again, and she mewled. He started to ascend again, but stopped at her lips this time, and nibbled on the corner of it. And then—

"As your host, I must ask, would you like me to show you to a room?" someone said from behind him.

Valentine smirked. "I'd rather prefer you leave me to my business."

"Oh, but I think you'd like a room," his host said. "I insist. Come this way."

He heard footsteps behind him, and reached behind his head to unclasp her hands. Her arms went slack around his neck, but she kept them there still, remembering his instructions to keep them there. God, but she was so close to him! She heard him whisper something in her ear, but didn't register the word. When he took one of her hands in his, however, she realized it was her cue to drop her other arm and follow him, wherever he was going.

Within the confines of his chest, Valentine's heart was beating normally, and he was surprised at that. Only a few days after the woods and the guest bedroom, he'd gone and done almost the same thing to her again. He should be unnerved, nervous, like he had been after the aforementioned events had occurred. When he stepped over the threshold and into a small room, though, all thoughts of the girl came to a screeching halt and he waited for Magnus Bane to turn around.

"I believe that this will be to your liking. Private, secluded, cut off from the rest of the—"

He'd turned around.

Her hand was released from his grip when he began to walk towards the warlock. His voice was smooth, velvety, and his charming self came to life. "Mr Bane, I am convinced that there is no need for violence," but even as he said this, he was twirling his weapon of choice in his hand behind his back. "All I have are a few questions that I need answers to. Do you think that you could endeavor to assist me?"

"Well, when a child of the Angel needs help, one doesn't decline, and certainly not if it's Valentine Morgenstern doing the asking," he said, putting his glass of wine down on a table. "To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from the shining beacon of the Shadowhunting world?"

Valentine slipped a hand into his pocket and felt for the piece of paper he'd folded neatly before they left the manor. He found it and pulled it out, unfolding it the minute it was out of the small space the pocket of his pants allowed. He held it out to the Downworlder, and watched it leave his hands. Magnus dropped the paper as if it was made of fire and took a step back. "How dare you bring that…that…that _thing_ into my house," he said harshly, seething with anger. "You would do well to get out now, boy."

"You promised me answers, Mr Bane, and I want them." His voice was gentle, his tone civilized, masking the urge to tear the warlock apart limb from limb.

The roar that filled the room following his statement was shocking, especially when considering that it came from a man of Bane's size. "I gave you no such promise!"

And that was the final straw for the young man. He took a step back, and then another and another, until he was standing next to the girl, no longer shielding her from view. Bane gestured at her impatiently, as if to say, "What is the meaning of this?" and Valentine placed a hand on her back, giving her a small push, encouraging her to move forward. She did so, and she stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, between the two men, the only thing keeping them from going for each other's throats. "She bears your mark," he said, struggling to keep his voice at normal volume.

"She does—" The protest he was about to make came short in his mouth, and his eyes focused on the small mark under her collarbone. He moved faster than he should've been able to and touched his fingers to her skin, resulting in her taking several steps back. Bane saw her red shoes stop first, and then looked up to see what had made her halt—Valentine had come up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, whispering soothing words in her ear. He then nodded, a motion meant to call the warlock closer, and that was what he did. He moved closer and examined the mark on her skin, careful not to touch her this time. "You must have me confused with someone else, Mr Morgenstern. That is not my mark."

"My education says otherwise," the Shadowhunter said carefully.

"The things the Clave feed you and have the nerve to call _education_ are messed up and untrue. I will say this once more and _only_ once more: that is not my mark."

"Whose is it then?" The back of her head was resting on his chest now, and when Bane stayed mum, making her breathing quicken in anticipation, fear, confusion, his arms tightened protectively around her. "Mr Bane," he said, projecting his anger into every word that left his mouth, "she has been chased down by people she knows nothing about, from a world which she knows nothing about and she feared for her sanity. She is a human girl, Mr Bane, not a Shadowhunter, not a Downworlder. She has the right to know what is going on with her and by the Angel, you will tell her what she needs. I will not have her fearing her own shadow for the rest of her life." The warlock was quiet, and Valentine was quickly losing his patience. He removed his arms from her and thrust her forward just a little bit, enough to make Bane's head snap up and look at her to make sure that she was alright. "Look at her! Tell me that she is not human! Tell me that she is not frightened! Tell me!"

"The mark belonged to my predecessor," Bane finally said, giving into the young man's persuasion. "But he died long before this girl was even born. He couldn't have given her that mark. And before you go and get your handsome little head tangled in conspiracy theories, I watched the man die with my own eyes, and good riddance to him, too!"

"Then how do you explain his mark on her person?"

Bane looked at him, his expression incredulous. "I don't know. I just told you that he's already dead. Do you think he could've come back to life and marked her because he's a zombie and wants her brain in particular for dinner?"

The ferocious look on the Shadowhunter's face told the warlock that he shouldn't have said what he did, but a second later, and rage was turned into exhaustion. He looked gaunt, as if he hadn't slept for days, as if he'd spent countless hours staying up, watching over her, worrying about her. "So we've hit a dead end. We are no closer to solving this than we were when you were in the hospital." His words were directed at the girl, but Bane heard them and he felt sorry for the boy.

"Tell me, Angel child, do you know who my predecessor was?"

"I don't want to venture into a history lesson now, so yes. I know who he was and I know how he was loved, worshipped by his followers as if he were a new God."

"One of those followers is still alive, Valentine," he said to the Shadowhunter, daring to use his first name.

Valentine didn't seem to notice the use of his given name. All he'd heard was that one of the dead warlock's followers still lived, and that meant that if Bane couldn't give him the answers he needed, then this follower could. Bane was speaking, giving him the address of the follower, and he grabbed a pen lying on the table and scribbled the words he heard neatly on the piece of paper containing a picture of the rune he'd drawn.

_54, Block B, Honore Apartments, Rue Le Regrattier, 75004 Paris, France._

He looked at the words on the paper, satisfied, and thanked Magnus Bane before motioning for the girl to exit. She walked ahead of him, and he was just about to step out of the room as well when he felt a hand on his arm. He looked back, and Magnus was looking at him with concern. "Your feelings for her are dangerous, Mr Morgenstern. She is not what she seems."

"What rubbish are you speaking of, warlock?"

"Just think about her before you decide to take this further."

"She has always been the first thing I think of," Valentine bit off, and stalked away from the Downworlder in the room.

Once outside, they made their way to his horse, and he renewed the glamour surrounding them before helping her mount the steed. The last thing he needed was for people to stare as he rode past them on Majesty. Before, when they'd been on their way here, she had been mounted in front of him, but he wanted to be in front now for reasons he couldn't disclose, and when started the horse on a trot, her arms snaked around his waist. He experienced a certain comfort from her actions and kept his contented sigh to himself.

After school tomorrow, he would come back to Paris and hunt down this follower.

And then a thought hit him. "I have school tomorrow," he said over his shoulder. He couldn't very well leave her at his home just like that. Were anything to happen, he knew that the guards would put up a good fight, but he wanted her with him. To keep her safe, that is. And she knew him, more than she did anyone else in the manor. Wouldn't she feel safer with him? "Don't be so sure," his voice chimed in his head again. "After what you've done to her, do you think you'll ever truly win her trust again?"

He cleared his throat. "Why don't you come with me tomorrow? You could wait in the Academy's library while I go for classes. And nothing will happen to you there, you can be certain of that. The building is filled with Shadowhunters. They'll—"

"Is that what you are? A Shadowhunter?" her voice was small and he was taken aback by her sudden question.

His mouth opened again, and he wanted to say her name, and then he realized that he didn't know what it was. After having kidnapped her, kissed her, tore her clothing and shared whatever it was that he'd done in the warehouse earlier, he didn't even know what to call her. He tugged on the reins, and his horse came to a halt. He twisted around and looked her squarely in her eyes. "Do you realize that I don't know your name?" he asked. She blinked once, twice, and he smiled, managing to veer her completely off course from her question. "Well, what is it then?"

"Violet," she blurted out, trying to cease the torrential rain of thoughts her mind kept producing. "Violet. After my eyes. My parents weren't very creative."

He laughed, and it was the first time she'd heard him do so. "Violet." He turned back around, facing the road ahead of him and set his horse back into a canter. "I am of the opinion that it doesn't suit you, but if that is what your uncreative parents have named you, then that is what I shall call you by. Violet."


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**A/N: So...not much to say about this chapter. I think we have all come to the conclusion that I will never be satisfied with anything that I write so...yeah, there isn't much left to say. I just hope that this is okay and that you'll be entertained by reading it. That's really all a writer can ever hope for, right? As always, R&R. Reviews are my substitute for not being able to marry Shannon Leto.**

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_Violet. Vio-let. Vi-o-let. _"Violet." _Shit._

Valentine Morgenstern tensed in his seat, holding his breath, afraid that it would add to the possibility of the girl in question waking up—as if his saying her name out loud wasn't enough to see to it. His eyes were narrowed, his face crumpled in such a way that one would've thought he was a child who'd been scolded by his mother, and he could feel his nails biting into the flesh of his thighs even through the fabric of his pants.

But she neither stirred nor opened her eyes, nothing to indicate that she might've heard him, and he deduced that he was in the clear. He breathed a sigh of relief, and it was a heavy sigh, an audible sigh, and it made her shift. He was more than ready to return to his previous state of utter stillness, but within a second, it was made evident to him that there was no need for such a thing. She'd merely moved so she could rest her head more comfortably against the wall of the carriage.

He was hard-pressed not to allow his lips to mimic the warm feelings he had in his chest as he watched her brown hair fall over her brow. She was tired, he knew. He was tired, too, and he had a feeling that he was going to absolutely abhor having to stay awake in his classes later on, yet he found that he couldn't close his eyes. It seemed that every moment he spent watching her, studying her as she slept on peacefully, he discovered new things that he hadn't noticed before. Things like the tiny cloud-shaped birthmark she had on her index finger—it'd almost faded to match the colour of her skin, but it was still there and he still saw it—and the way they turned almost white when the sun caught her eye lashes. He'd been taken aback when he learnt of that, and had moved to the edge of his seat, trying to get as close as possible without waking her, his curiosity burning. It'd looked so real, her hair. Surely the chocolate brown of it wasn't the product of hair dye?

Chuckling as he thought of what he'd done not too long ago, and how he'd immediately retracted his form so his back was once against pressed against the back of the carriage seat when she mumbled something in her sleep, Valentine focused his eyes on her once more, and focused his mind as well, and saw her looking back at him. His smile disappeared abruptly and his body once again came to a standstill, both his hands still clasped in his lap.

She surveyed him, her eyes flicking from the top of his head all the way to his toes, as if she'd never seen him before. It was strange, but he brushed it off, determined not to question her. Perhaps she was behaving as such because most of their encounters had happened at night, when his marks weren't so obvious. She was a Mundane, after all. It wasn't right, wasn't considerate of him to expect her to be accustomed to having her whole world turned upside-down, all her beliefs on reality proven wrong in such a short time. So he relaxed into the seat and gave her a small nod of acknowledgement, watching her as she let her blue eyes roam over his person.

The young man felt his stomach slam up into his heart. _Blue_ eyes? Her eyes were violet. He was certain of it as he was of the fact that the sun rose from the east and set in the west. They were an odd combination of the lightest of blue and purple, and he knew—he _knew_—that they weren't blue. Not in the least bit.

Oh, calm your horses, he thought. Maybe she was one of those people whose eyes changed colour every time they were in a different type of lighting. But surely they wouldn't change so drastically? He was unable to reign in his racing thoughts as he looked deep into her eyes. They were so different from what he'd seen all the times before. Was his sight going bad? He'd never thought that he was colour blind, but if what he'd seen of her eyes was not at all what they actually were, shouldn't he consult an optometrist about it?

"Valentine?" she said softly.

No, no. Not softly. Lowly. She had said his name lowly, huskily, and he frowned at that. Was she trying to seduce him? Was it even she who was talking to him? "Yes?"

"Would you mind if I moved to where you are? It's not very comfortable here."

That was her voice, alright. She was speaking to him. And there was no one else around. "If you deem it necessary, I suppose I wouldn't care too much."

She smiled at him and got out of her seat. It wouldn't take her long to lower herself into the empty space next to him and Valentine began the process of steeling himself to not react overmuch to her closeness, her warmth, or, may the Angel help him, her _touch_.

But then there was a retched sound, and it assaulted his ears the way a cobra lunged at its prey. He shouldn't have done it. Every bit of training he's ever had taught him that he shouldn't have done it, but it was unbelievably loud and he felt for sure that his ears were bleeding. God, but they hurt so badly, and all he wanted was to clamp his hands over his ears and despite everything he's learned from his teachers, from all the combat practices in the Academy, he held both his hands tightly to either side of his head. His eyes, saucer-wide, followed the door as it was torn right off its hinges, bits of splintered wood flying about.

And then there was a hooded figure, and he hooked an arm around Violet's waist, pulling her out of the hole the door had left in its place. A scream followed suit and Valentine leaped out of his seat, his arms outstretched to latch onto the girl. He caught her legs and felt himself being dragged forward as the assailant continued trying to yank her out of the vehicle. He planted his feet firmly on the ground, and his grip on her tightened. For a moment or two, he contemplated letting her go, the force with which she was being pulled in the opposite direction so strong that he was afraid she would tear in half.

Violet was now clawing through the air in front of her, trying and failing to get a hold on him. "Valentine!" she screamed, and that one word, that one use of his forename, made him tug harder at her. It wasn't the most effective of weapons, but he grabbed his stele and threw it with all the might he could muster towards the hooded figure. It must've caught him off guard because after that, the muscles in his arms were no longer burning from the strain that was put upon them, and he could see her getting closer to him. There was not a hint of the hooded figure as she reached out for him, her lips parting to say his name.

And then she screamed again and the white top she'd donned before leaving his manor turned crimson with blood. He heard himself shout the word no, and vaguely, he wondered why the driver was still continuing on the path to the Academy when he was in here, yelling and watching the girl he's promised to protect die.

His breathing quickened as he watched their attacker plunge the stele into her one more time. It wasn't supposed to do that. It had a blunt tip. It wasn't supposed to tear through her skin like that. Her mouth was open in a silent scream as the very thing he'd used to ward off the figure drove into her hip. He felt his cheeks turn wet and almost laughed at the realization of his tears flowing freely. He hadn't cried when his father died, yet here he was, crying openly at the sight of a girl he barely knew having her life leave her bit by bit.

From underneath the hood, the figure flashed a cruel smile at the Shadowhunter, and he could see it. Then he was gone, and Violet was falling forward. He caught her, and suddenly, all his strength left him, and Valentine sank to the ground, the girl limp in his arms. His white school-shirt was being soaked through by her blood, and though he couldn't see it, he could feel the dampness against his skin and, unable to think of anything else to do, he held her tightly in his arms, his head drooping, his face buried in her hair as he cried and cried and cried.

"You failed me," she said quietly, and Valentine shook his head repeatedly, hoping that she would feel the motion.

He found her ear through her hair and kissed it as more tears left his eyes, and he whispered, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Violet, I'm so sorry." He kept saying it, chanting it as if it were a mantra, a flicker of hope inside him fuelling him with thoughts of dark magic and bringing her back to life if he'd simply chant it often enough. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Violet, please, don't leave. I'm sorry."

He wrapped an arm around her waist and waited for her abdomen to rise along with her chest when she took her next breath, but he felt nothing move against his arm. Her stomach was flat and she was no longer moving. He could still feel the wheels of the carriage rolling underneath him, driving along rocks and unsmooth terrain. "No," he said into her ear. "No, come back. Violet." He shook her a little bit, and then harder. "Violet." His voice was louder this time and he tried to push forth some anger into it, half expecting her to open her eyes if she heard that he was mad. "Violet," he said again, searching her face for any signs of her eyes opening. But there was nothing, and he was resigned to sinking his face back into her hair, holding her to him as closely as he possibly could.

_She is mine_, a voice sounded in his head, and this time, it wasn't his. _I always get what I want, Shadowhunter. Always. And a child isn't going to stop me from getting her._

The carriage lurched forward, and Valentine had to release his hold on her else risk crushing her body with his own as he fell forward. He didn't even put an effort into breaking his fall, letting his person fall heavily—and painfully—onto the carriage floor instead. He saw her hand and his eyes fell upon the cloud-like birthmark on her index finger not a moment later. He closed his eyes, trapping a tear before it had the chance to fall.

"Valentine? Valentine, are you alright? You look like you're about to be sick."

His eyes could not have opened faster if there'd been a Rune for it, and when he saw her sitting opposite him, exactly where she'd been fast asleep before, her skin free from the paleness that had overcome it when they were both lying upon the floor, her shirt holding no traces of the blood there'd been an abundance of when he held her in his arms, he drank in the sight of her. But that was before a maddening urge to check her for the wound she'd suffered overcame him. Once that set in, he all but jumped out of his seat and kneeled before her, pulling her top up a little bit to bare her hip to him. There was nothing, and his stele certainly wasn't sticking out of her flesh. He ran the pad of his thumb over it, just to ascertain that she truly was alright, and then another urge took control of him, only this time, he pulled her into his embrace. "You're alright," he said into her hair. "I was so sure that I'd lost you. But you're here, and you're alright. You're perfectly fine."

She laughed, but it was a quiet laugh and it was borne not of mirth, but of confusion and perhaps even just a little bit of pleasure at being held by him in such a manner, being spoken to as if she was all that mattered to this man. "Yes, yes, I'm fine. What's gotten you so worried?" Her hands came to rest on his shoulder blades and she allowed herself a little liberty to bury her face into his shoulder.

"I—" He stopped, and let his shoulders slump a little and sighed against her neck. She would draw her own conclusion at his actions, and he hoped that her thoughts were bordering on 'Oh, he's just a little overwhelmed by a myriad of emotions right now.' He hated the thought of her thinking that he was emotionally vulnerable, but whatever it was that she would think, it could not possibly be worse than what was raging in him right then. He couldn't tell her that he'd just seen her die. She'd think he was crazy. How in the world was he supposed to explain to her that someone had torn the door off of the carriage, made an attempt at snatching her away and upon failing, killed her with his stele instead? How was he meant to go about telling her that she'd died in his arms when here she was, in his arms as well—she seemed to end up there quite a lot—perfectly alive, no blood gushing out of a wound, not limp and lifeless?

The absence of her against him was obvious and that was what alerted him to her pulling away from him. His arms around her went slack, but he still kept her encircled in them. She looked at him softly, coaxing him into talking to her. But he couldn't tell her. "Perhaps I shall be able to tell you when I have figured it out myself. Mayhap I'm simply always worried about you." A huge grin splayed out on her face as he ended his sentence, and his brows furrowed. "Have I said something humorous?"

She nodded vigorously, and he frowned even more. "Mayhap? Come on now. No one uses that word anymore. It's maybe, Angel."

"_Mayhap_," he put an extravagant amount of exaggeration on that one word in his retort, "I like to be unique, out of the ordinary."

"_Maybe_," she laughed as she said it, trying to exaggerate her word of choice as well, "you have an old soul."

"I'm of seventeen years," he deadpanned.

And apparently, it didn't work, because she had a comeback. "Are you sure?"

He parted his lips, drew a breath, prepared to take this thing—whatever it was—further when he heard a rather pointed clearing of a throat. He turned to the direction of it, readying himself to bring forth the part of an annoyed, well-endowed man, and was stopped short at the sight of the carriage door wide open and people looking in at Violet and himself, at the head of the crowd, his driver. "I knocked, Sir," was all he said.

He removed his arms from her waist in an instant, and stood up just as quickly, careful to duck so his head wouldn't hit the carriage's ceiling. He exited the carriage and felt his shoes first coming into contact with the metal step of his family's carriage before making its way to grass, and then turned around, holding his hand out to help the girl still inside out. He would've done it given any circumstance, but now, faced with such an audience, he _had_ to do it. There wasn't an excuse to be any less of a gentleman that he'd already been in the carriage, holding her as he had.

Violet stepped out and, clothed in her plain white shirt and a full-length floral skirt, she looked every bit the picture of femininity. Why in the Angel's name hadn't he noticed earlier?

Her hand was warm when she laid it in his and he squeezed it briefly, her eyes flying to his face instead of lingering upon those of the people who, he was certain, were watching her strangely. It was glaringly obvious that she wasn't a student here and didn't intend to be a student here else she would've worn the school's uniform and from their previous position in the carriage, some probably thought that he'd gone and gotten himself married over the weekends, not that it was legal or anything of that sort.

The few steps it took to separate themselves from the crowd weren't many, but whenever a student turned around to speak to a friend or to look at something, they'd catch a glimpse of them, walking along the cobblestone path, making their way to the foreboding structure of the Academy's main building, and suddenly a glimpse wasn't enough. People would stare and people would shoot the girl walking alongside him dirty looks, and judging from the way she was shrinking behind him, it was getting to her. He wanted to sigh, and he wanted to run his hand through his hair, but he couldn't. She needed to know that he could protect her from this and doing the things he wanted to at that moment would do nothing to reassure her.

So he didn't. He walked with his back straighter, his demeanor colder and he shot down anyone that looked at her for what he thought was far too long a time. Before long, they were entering the doors of the Academy and he was leading her to the library. As he made his way there, unable to keep himself from looking over his shoulder to make sure she was still behind him and alive, he had doubts about leaving her on her own. It was ridiculous to feel that way. He'd already made up his mind and, indeed, convinced himself last night that she would be fine in the library while he went off to his classes. The Academy was patrolled by a specifically trained team—an incredibly _large_ specifically trained team—of Shadowhunters. They wouldn't let anything pass through the Academy's wards and even if something did manage to get past them, they would kill it before it got within a hundred metres of Violet.

He wouldn't be the one to protect her, but she would be fine. She'd be safe, alive, and if something happened, he doubted that he wouldn't hear about it. So stop worrying, he thought. But he couldn't cease from it! What'd happened in the carriage was proof that he became a bloody oaf when it came to her. He couldn't make the right decisions, couldn't think about his training, couldn't let his Shadowhunter reflexes kick in. What if he was making the wrong choice now, leaving her in the library?

But no one could know the truth about her either. If anyone found out that he'd all but kidnapped a mundane girl and brought her back to Idris, he would be in a gargantuan amount of trouble and she would be sent back to England—surely someone with an accent as hers was from England—where she'd be vulnerable to whoever it was, whatever it was that was out to get her. No, taking her into class with him when she was evidently not a student would definitely spell problems. Teachers would want to know who she was and then the headmaster would want to know as well. And after that, they'd uncover everything. He couldn't have that.

Valentine pushed open the door to the library, the left side of his temple beginning to hurt from the amount of thinking he was doing. He was stressed and that normally didn't bode well with his migraine. This time, he exhaled deeply, a sigh, seeing the litter of armchairs and couches in the center of the library he'd thought of depositing her in while he got ready for a full day of school. Looking at it now, at the brown leather and studs dotting the armrests, he knew for certain that he didn't want to leave her.

He turned around to address her, but as he was doing so, he caught a glimpse of brown bangs. He stopped, and looked at the girl, and then said, "Madi, I'm going to need your help for today."


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**A/N: So, I don't know about you, but I feel like this is one of my better chapters thus far. I'm having a love-hate relationship with it, but the love is currently winning by a little bit. As usual, Read and Review. You know you make me happy with your beautiful reviews. :))**

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"_Herr Morgenstern_."

Valentine wanted to slam his face against his table and keep it there forever. He wanted to stuff cotton balls—or anything, really—into his ears and drown out the sound of Professor Klaus's voice, and he never wanted to remove them. God, but his name sounded terrible in German! It was awful! Even if it was German! Why couldn't his father have been some nice gentleman from Australia? Why did his mother have to marry into his father's family? Why did he have such a horrid-sounding German surname?

Gradually, the student in him began to put in its two cents, and he turned his head away from the window to rest his gaze upon the middle-aged man standing at the front of the class. His skin was far too pallid to even resemble any type of complexion, and his hooked nose was…well, it was hooked. His eyes were a dull gray, his head now adorned with completely white hair. And he had a strand or two—or too many strands to count—of the same white hair jutting out of his right ear.

_Only_ his right ear.

Professor Klaus was not a sight to behold, but he was, in fact, married.

"Do you intend on paying attention in my class or must I be content with you staring blankly out the window?"

He hadn't been staring blankly out the window! He'd been staring quite pointedly at a tree, wondering if Madi would ever decide to bring Violet there to reassure him that she was fine. "I offer you my apologies, Professor. I don't think I have my head on right today."

The old man smirked before turning away from the young man, his hand once again poised to scrawl some sentence or another on the blackboard. "Two whole days with Angeline Lambert tends to have that effect on people."

Valentine smiled graciously to his teacher's back, his focus having returned to his Demon Lore lesson. He stole a quick glance at the two blackboards in front of him, and grimaced as he brought his eyes back down to the empty page of his notebook. Professor Klaus had filled the first board with words that seemed to mash together in an obvious attempt to fit in as much as he could before moving onto the other one. His fingers tightened around the pen in his hand and he started to let it move over the paper, his recognizable, neat penmanship quickly coming into view. And so he fell into a routine through the rest of the class, his eyes flicking up to the board, committing the words to memory before returning to his notebook and writing them down.

Before long, the bell tolled, signifying the end of Demon Lore, signifying the start of lunch break. He quickly packed his things, taking absolute care to place his notebook behind its matching text book, and then zipped his bag up, standing up. He swiped his blazer from the back of his chair, where it had been through the whole duration of the class, and shrugged it on. He fastened the two buttons in the front and slung his bag over his shoulder, his shoes clicking as he walked across the wooden floor of his classroom.

Perhaps Madi had been busy earlier, but now that it was recess, she would surely be in the dining hall and she would have Violet with her. He could see her. He could talk to her. Already, a smile plastered itself onto his face and he was just about to step over the threshold, exiting the room, when Professor Klaus called his name. His _forename_. Licking his lower lip in annoyance, the Shadowhunter spun on his heels and faced the professor with a somber expression.

He watched as his teacher came closer to him, and was ready to make a run for it when he heard his question. "Valentine, is there a girl?" The old man scrutinized his student's face, and he knew the answer. "I figured. What else could distract you so greatly? Is she a student here?"

The young man couldn't answer. Sure, there was a girl, but not in the sense that Professor Klaus was implying. "She's just a friend," he said softly, the words rolling off of his tongue smoothly.

"That's what I said about my wife when my friends asked," he said, humour in his voice, mirth tinkling in his eyes. "Just make sure that she doesn't occupy your mind all the time. You need some space for your studies, my boy. Many a time has a woman marked the downfall of a man. I hope you won't be one of those men, Mr Morgenstern."

Professor Klaus gave him a hearty pat on the shoulder, and then sent him on his way to the dining hall. Valentine, for his part, was still reeling from his teacher's words. He didn't like Violet in _that _way. She truly was just a friend. Well, no. In the truest sense, she was just an acquaintance. Yes, he'd kissed her, but that was simply because she'd been getting on his nerves. He hadn't enjoyed it. "You are so full of it, Morgenstern," his voice quipped in his head.

He hated his voice with a vengeance! At the rate it was going, he might never speak again.

Shadowhunter or not, Valentine slapped his forehead as he descended the stairs. Once he'd eaten, his utter ridiculousness would probably stop. He'd woken up far too early this morning as a result of being unable to sleep, and he'd declined one of the servant's offer to make him a quick breakfast. His stomach might not be growling in protest to the hunger it was being forced to subject to, but he could feel the first pangs of a craving for food hit him. The sigh that quickly darted out of his slightly parted lips had him thinking about the dining hall. He didn't like eating there. The food was good enough, but everyone stared and everyone wanted to talk to him. For today, though, they would stare at Violet and the thought of her feeling uncomfortable left him wanting to reassemble a few faces.

Through the corner of his eye, he could see an explosion of red hair gaining on him and he made a sharp turn to exit through a side door. It would take him far away from the dining hall where ninety-eight percent of the Academy's inhabitants would converge, and it would lead him far away from the food, but he couldn't stand the thought of speaking to Jocelyn now. He was famished, tired, and all he wanted to do was see the condition in which Violet was in. If there was so much as a scratch on any part of her, he'd have Madi hanged.

Well, not really, but he would hang her in his mind.

He didn't fully fathom why he was always so worried about her. Maybe it was because he was the one who'd brought her into this world, into his world, where people got hurt every five seconds. Maybe it was because she was a girl, and she was a petite one, and the vulnerability that she wore on her sleeve made him want to protect her. That didn't mean that she was _that_ girl. It simply indicated that he had a protective streak, and since he was an only child, maybe this was a way of wanting to know what it felt like to have a younger sibling. He wasn't terribly sure about her age, but he was almost positive that she was younger than him. She had to be or things would be a little weird, awkward.

It was sudden, how his thoughts had been wrenched away from Violet and onto the demon he'd slain in Paris. He felt like someone was ripping him out of his skin, out of his body, and he found himself in that dark alley again, his back pressed against the wall, watching the demon as the life left it, drawn to its eyes, just as he had been during the actual event. He'd been so tired when he finally made it back to the Institute, and he'd been put in such unease by his encounter, he'd promptly made himself forget about everything he'd seen. But he saw it now. He saw Violet in the demon's eyes, and he could hear her.

She was walking down a deserted street he recognized as one that was included in his route to the Parisian Institute, and her arms were crossed over her stomach, hugging herself as she looked backwards, beads of perspiration gathering on her forehead. He wanted to reach out and hit her in the head. What was she thinking, walking alone in an obviously dangerous environment? She could've gotten herself killed! She was easy prey for the demon! But, of course, he couldn't and his eyes followed her as she walked along, her pace picking up in speed, the memory of seeing all this extracted from somewhere in his head.

And then he heard it—the same voice that'd taunted him in the carriage. He could feel it snake into his ears, sending a chill down his spine. "I'll get you. You can't get away from me. I'm coming for you." The moment his words started, she let loose a scream, and what had before been a mere walk, turned into an all out run as she tried to get away from her pursuer. "I won't let you escape me. I will have you one way or another," he continued to taunt. "You are mine."

Valentine felt himself stumble, and then he felt pain shoot up his knees as they impacted the ground, his palms stinging from scraping against little rocks in the grass. His head moved from its drooping position to look up. There were clear, blue skies ahead of him and an endless field of green, not a dirty, empty street against the backdrop of the night. But, the Angel help him, her scream still echoed in his ears. I'm not crazy, he thought to himself, and he almost laughed at the realization. He was such an idiot! He should've associated it to what she's had to endure sooner. This was exactly why she had feared for her sanity in the first place!

But then there was a scream, only this time, it wasn't hers, and seconds later, more screams erupted from the other side of the school. His stomach roiled, and the strongest urge to retch built up in his chest, rising to his throat, but he couldn't give face to it. Instead, he picked himself up and, when he should've started running towards the Great Hall (exactly where the other, screaming students were headed), he broke in the opposite direction.

Not a soul paid attention to this renegade as he pushed through the crowd, his backpack falling off his shoulder. He unbuttoned his blazer and dropped it—his mother would have an apoplectic fit if she ever found out—wherever it fell on the ground, heedless of whether or not the expensive article of clothing would be stained. The human part of him wanted to close his eyes, shut himself out from whatever was going on as his heart slammed repeatedly into his chest, praying that she wasn't there, praying that she'd been taken to the dining hall, praying that she had the Circle members around her, praying that they knew he would want them to protect her. But he was a Shadowhunter and thus, he kept his eyes open.

The scene of a battle was laid out before him when he got to the edge of the school grounds, where the wards were. The Shadowhunters assigned to protect the Academy were in the heat of it, seraph blades, daggers, swords, staffs, spears swinging in the air in an unorganized manner. There were teachers there, too, and some were focused on fighting off the trespassers while the others were fighting and shouting at the students to run like hell to the Great Hall, to their sanctuary. It wasn't something he was unaccustomed to seeing, but watching it happen within the boundaries of the safest place in all of Idris made him feel like tumbling to the ground. Seventeen years of life and he never once thought that something like this could possibly come to his school.

Then he saw the Circle member standing in the midst of the battle, her seraph blade slicing through the air, effectively sending a demon jumping backwards, and he stopped dead in his tracks.

No, his mind rang. No. "No," he breathed.

Her chocolate hair was the first thing he saw of her, and his heart crumpled in his chest. She was there as well, alongside Madi, a seraph blade in her hands. A Ravener demon lunged towards her, and a primal cry was ripped from his throat as he barreled through the students running away from the battle and the teachers yelling at him to follow suit his peers. He should have. But he couldn't. She was there.

His heart skipped a beat—or two—when the demon was too close for his liking, and he thought he could hear her racing heartbeat. He was able to see it in his head. The demon would knock her down and its claws would rip through her chest, tearing her skin. Her blood would be everywhere.

But no. Violet, upon seeing the Ravener demon, fell to the ground and rolled away from where she'd been standing seconds earlier. When the demon made contact with the ground, she was already on her feet, the seraph blade held tightly in her hands, pointing towards hell's spawn. The Ravener never took its beady eyes off her and it began to move, as did she. It looked like they were engaged in a dance, tension so thick that one could cut through it. And then it charged. The moment it began to move, the girl lunged forward, her movements familiar to Valentine.

_Fencing._

She handled the seraph blade the way she would a rapier and she struck the demon. It hissed loudly. However, the blow did not deter it from its target, and it charged at her once more. At this point, Valentine had started making his way towards her. To his left, a teacher was frantically shouting for him to go to the Great Hall, but he didn't listen. He had to get to her, tell her to run away. He was too far away, though, and when he saw her backing up, Madi falling to the ground after being hit by another demon, he heard himself yell, "Run!"

Madi turned her head instantly in his direction, her vision greeted by the sight of the Circle leader running towards them and she tugged at the other girl's skirt, causing her to hit the ground, the Ravener demon missing its target as it moved through the air like a missile. She started to get up, but was halted when an Ahiab demon appeared before them. It knew exactly where they were and it intended to kill them. The seraph blade in her hand glowed brighter, heating up as it got closer.

The Circle member heard the cry of pain before she even registered the Shadowhunter boring his own weapon into the demon, in blissful ignorance of the acidic blood scalding his skin. He looked at her once, briefly, but she got his order loud and clear, as if he'd shouted it like he had earlier. He was telling them to run, so she moved across the field faster than she should've had, not turning back. She heard another tortured cry as Valentine did God-knows-what to the Ahiab and looked over her shoulder as he cried out, "Violet!"

Valentine could see everything clearly, like he'd suddenly acquired high definition vision, and he hated it. He could see her long brown hair whip across her face as she was suddenly stopped by a Drevak. He moved away from the mutilated Ahiab at his feet and broke into a run in her direction, going faster still as fear set in. He couldn't allow what he saw in the carriage happen. He couldn't fail her. He didn't want to fail her.

In a bid to instill calmness in himself, Valentine recited what he could remember of Drevaks from Demon Lore. "Fast. Poisonous spikes in their mouth. Capable of human speech. More of a messenger, a spy." His wildly beating heart slowed down as far as an adrenaline-filled body could allow it to slow and he said the last part with triumph: "Not. A. Fighter."

However, this Drevak was destined to break away from the mold because, when it spied Valentine closing the distance, it made for Violet—any part of her. She started to move away, but tripped on her skirt, and went tumbling to the ground. The seraph blade slipped through her tightly wound fingers and he could see blood blooming from her hand as the blade cut through her skin. It had done that, the bloody Drevak. It'd caused her an injury.

The fury that unleashed itself in Valentine was new and it sent him racing toward the blasted demon with a new-found hatred. His seraph blade had been thrown towards the demon by his own hand before he had a chance to think up an attack plan and once he was close enough, Valentine pushed himself off the ground, sailing through the air, executing a tumble over the Drevak, grabbing his seraph blade by the hilt and yanking it viciously out of the demon. A high, keening sound was forced from the creature and it whipped its head towards the Shadowhunter, catching his scent.

Hell, but it was fast. Despite having landed on his feet, not even a thud produced, he hadn't been able to ward off the aggravated demon and he didn't feel it when the Drevak lashed out and hit him squarely in the chest, sending him flying backwards, a testament to the Drevak's speed. He groaned, a brand of pain flaring in his body. He had to get up now. He _must_. The Drevak would be close by and he had to be ready for a counterattack.

Unsteadily, the young man got to his feet, and saw a flash of green before he was beaten down to the ground again—_hard_. But, Valentine's grip on his seraph blade was relentless and, though his whole person was aching, he forced his eyes to stay open. He saw the Drevak moving above him and thrust his arm upward before pulling it through the air, the movement causing his weapon to slice through the Drevak's belly. It screeched, and Valentine could smell the scent of rotting garbage that belonged to its kind. He sat up in time to see the demon turn unto him with hellfire eyes, and a smirk carved onto his lips. It was when they hated him that things truly became fun.

He'd only gotten as far as a crouch before the damned thing charged at him again and had just enough time to perform a back-flip to get away from it. The demon came into contact with nothing and stopped abruptly where Valentine had stood, its head whipping in a frenzied motion from side to side, looking for its target. He knew about Drevaks, and he knew that when they were confused, it was a student's cue to make a run for it. It was what he'd been taught not only in Demon Lore, but also in combat classes. But then he saw her blood and he couldn't walk away from this until he had seen its blood as well.

So he charged at it—rather like it had done to him—and pointed his seraph blade down. The Drevak, having caught his scent once more, opened its great big mouth, the black spikes it had in substitution of teeth gleaming in the sunlight, and just as he thrust his weapon down into the demon's head to the very hilt, the other end piercing through the roof of its mouth, it closed its teeth around his calf.

He screamed.

It screamed.

Valentine could feel the spikes in his flesh and in addition to that, his seraph blade as well. God help him, but he was in a world of pain. He pried an eyelid open and saw the Drevak thrashing about. It was stuck to his leg by the seraph blade that had torn through both of them and through the pain, he felt himself smile. He steeled himself for what he was about to do next, and a sharp intake of breath was all he could manage as he viciously pulled his leg from the demon's mouth. He could feel his very own seraph blade tear through his skin, through his flesh, refusing to move, lodged as it was in the Drevak's mouth. It screamed again, and he managed to free his leg completely.

In the process of his yanking his leg out of the demon's bite, the black spikes had cut roughly through his skin before breaking off from its owner's mouth. There was a fire spreading from his calf up to his groin and down to the tips of his toes and he was now panting for breath, but that cursed demon wasn't dead yet and he wanted to kill it. His vision became disoriented and the left side of his head started to throb, pain opening up behind his eyes like a flower, and he pulled a spike out of his leg harshly. He could just make out the shape of the Drevak demon a few centimeters before him and he plunged it into his back, severing his spinal cord. Another hideous scream was ripped from the demon and within seconds, it died.

There were still screams around him, and there were more panic-stricken shouts from the teachers and Shadowhunters, but they quickly faded into a dull thudding as Valentine felt his head fall heavily to the ground, the grass somewhat cushioning it, making the impact less painful. He could hear her voice, laced with fear as she asked Madi to let her return to him and see what was wrong. The fire in his leg was tearing through his body, and he was certain that there were a pack of wolves tearing away at his skin, trying to get to his flesh, wanting to devour him.

He wanted nothing more than to not feel anything. And then, there was nothing.


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**A/N: So, in between school, homework and a sleepover, it's taken me quite some time to write this chapter. I started on Tuesday and finally ended it today, on Monday, at 2.38 a.m. (Malaysian time). As in the nature of things, once it's super, super hard to write from the very beginning, it's going to be mega hard to write up until the end. I had to force myself like crazy to write this and currently, I'm not happy. But that, my dear Reader, is subject to change once tomorrow comes. :P As per usual, R&R.**

* * *

"Mr Morgenstern? Mr Morgenstern, can you hear me?"

_Yes._

There was a sigh, and then the sound of shoes clicking against wooden floor, indicating that someone was moving about. And then he heard an irritated grumble of choice expletives. "If only you bumbling band of idiots had called me here sooner, his condition wouldn't be quite so bad. He would still be awake and he'd have maintained the ability to hear me speak. He would be conscious, do you understand?"

_But I can hear you. I can hear you very well._

"It wasn't easy to get you in here. I think the High Council would rather let the boy die than allow you entry. It was very fortunate that the Headmaster was able to call in a few favours and have them pull a few strings. So I think that you should start getting to work." Whoever it was that had brought Valentine's doctor here was in obvious distaste of the man's tantrum, and he was making it plainly, glaringly obvious.

"What would you have me do? It's not like I can treat it with just a snap of my fingers. The boy is dying, gentlemen. He is rotting from the inside out."

_Why aren't you listening to me? I'm right here. I can hear you. Please, just…stop the fire. It's burning me alive._

Another sigh was heard and then voices rose from the quiet, but unlike before, they—whoever _they_ were—were speaking in hushed tones, almost as if they were afraid he would be able to hear the words they uttered. Valentine felt himself frown, and then turned his face deeper into the pillow. They were somewhere in wherever he was, huddled in a group, most likely, discussing trivial matters for the sake of their bruised egos when what he really wanted was for them to saw his leg off.

"…suck it up. He's going to hate what I'm about to do, but it's for his own good." His doctor started poking at the skin around his injury. The patient flinched and hoped that it would aid in giving his doctor a sign that he wasn't a great fan of what was being done to his leg. For a moment, the poking stopped, but it was only for a moment. In the next, the man was touching the wound itself with what felt like a rubber finger, like he hadn't flinched at all. "Quite the determination this boy must have if he could pull his leg out of the mouth of a Drevak like that. Did he know that his seraph blade had been embedded in his leg as well?"

"I don't think so. When you're in the heat of things and adrenaline's pumping through your veins, it's a little hard to notice things," someone else spoke up.

_Liar! He lies!_

The doctor stopped his incessant poking and there was once again the distinct _click-click-click_ sound of shoes, accompanying the silence that had descended upon his surroundings. Then the doctor was back and this time, Valentine could feel the cold of steel on his skin. "I'm going to have to snip these off. It will get in the way later and would delay his recovery if he were to survive this."

"You mean he could die?" This voice was new, and it was evidently pumped full of astonishment.

"It's hard to come by a survivor of a Drevak bite after so much time has passed. Furthermore, he has a few of its spikes in his calf. Those things continue to secrete toxin for thirty-six hours after being separated from its host." The coolness upon his burning skin felt good and had he been capable, he would've loved to take whatever it was that the doctor held and plunged it right into his flesh. With luck, it would extinguish the flame within him. "Now, go stand up there and pin down his shoulders. I'm going to need help with his legs. If the boy is as much a fighter as he's said to be, some of you might want to hold his arms down as well."

_No, I just need some peace and quiet. I need sleep. And the biggest bucket of ice anyone can find. Leave me be._

Once the orders were issued, though, a group of people of an undetermined number took any part of his body they could get their hands on and held it in a death grip. He could've sworn there were two sets of hands on his shoulders, holding him down to the hard mattress underneath him. He tried to shake himself free, but they acted like they couldn't feel any of his movements. He was trying as hard as he could to fight them off and yet they pinned him down as if he'd done nothing. _By the Angel, what is going on?_

He got the answer he wanted seconds later when he felt a piece of his skin being enclosed between two blades—scissors. He wanted to open his eyes right then and there, but he was so tired, exhausted. His eyelids felt like two whales on his face. They couldn't do this to him. Surely this was in breach of some medical ethic. He was still awake and the fact that he could still feel the metal blades of the scissors on his skin was proof that they hadn't registered any form of anesthetic on him.

And then he felt the sharp blades slice through his skin, the scissors beginning to snip away at bits of his skin, and it was like someone had shoved their hands down his throat and wrenched out the scream he'd tried so hard to suppress. His shoulder's lifted off the bed as if picked up by invisible hands belonging to a giant. For the first time since he'd regained consciousness, his voice greeted his ears. They had to stop now that he was screaming. It should be evident that he was aware of what was being done to him. They'd cease trying to cut him into pieces now.

But that didn't happen. The doctor kept working at the skin around his wound despite his protests and tears built up behind his closed eyelids, stinging his eyes. Every time he wanted to fall into the darkness that awaited him, those stinging tears would sadistically drag him, kicking and screaming, back to the reality of his condition where he continued to cry out in pain, hoping that his doctor would stop.

Frenzied voices came to life all around his bed, calling out words that didn't seem to make sense to him. God, but he'd never felt the type of pain he was being subjected to. And then, as if peeling his skin off wasn't enough, the doctor spilled a type of liquid on his wounds that scalded his skin, melting his flesh, before plunging another type of metal tool _into_ his leg. The urge to scream was building within him, but he couldn't let loose his voice any longer.

He was so tired. He didn't have the energy to do anything anymore, he was sure. His mind was buzzing with meaningless thoughts even as his person was wracked with the torment of everything being done to him.

Further and further, he sank into a state of unconsciousness. His mind stopped working, though the pain exploding in his veins was trying its hardest to bring him back. But he ignored it. He ignored everything, and as the dark pulled him deeper into her embrace, vaguely, he thought of Violet. Would they take care of her once he was gone? They had to know that that'd be what he wanted them to do.

He laid there, motionless and tense, the doctor poking about inside his leg, and though he felt like crying and screaming and thrashing, his body went slack, giving up.

_Come take me away._

* * *

"We're his friends. We have the right to see him!"

Valentine groaned internally, recognizing the voice in an instant. It was Jocelyn's. He didn't want her here. Knowing the girl, she'd probably fuss over him a little bit and then lecture him for being stupid enough to charge at a Drevak when what he should've done was run with his life intact. And then he'd have to kill her.

As though he'd heard Valentine's racing thoughts, the man assigned to sit idly by his bedside unless he went into shock—he'd already done that three times today—spoke carefully, enunciating his words to best deliver the message to Jocelyn. "I don't think that's going to happen. The boy needs his rest."

"Which part of 'we are his friends and we have the right to see him' don't you understand?"

"Every single one of those words you just said. Mr Morgenstern needs his rest and with all of you here, he's not going to get much of it. So if he's really your friend, you'd leave right now." His tone was courteous, his words polite, but his disdain was dancing about in his voice.

Jocelyn was livid, and she had just enough time to curse at him and say that he couldn't evict them, before more voices appeared from beyond the doorway. He turned his face deeper into the soft pillow, attempting to drown out their voices. He didn't need this. Not right now. His caregiver was right. Getting all the rest he needed to recover was in his best interest. Aside that, he'd almost died twice during the rather unethical medical procedure he'd been put through. He supposed he had the right to be dead tired.

He sighed, exhaling into the hot, still air around him. He was still burning, but instead of boiling, it was down to a simmer now. He knew better than to think that it was just a fever, though. Perhaps he could still have a go at dying.

* * *

Reluctantly, he left his dream state, left her voice, and allowed consciousness to steal him from the pleasant darkness he'd been enveloped in for what seemed like an eternity, and gave pain an opportunity to ravage his person once more.

Holy water was rushing through his veins, trying to kill any traces of the demon venom left inside him. He'd been awake long enough to see the priest bless the water, but by the time they stuck a needle in his arm, he'd gone back to sleep, incapable of keeping his eyes open any longer. He wasn't sure how long he'd had holy water in his body. However, he'd learned very quickly that it hurt more than the poison it was combating.

The covers were heavy on him, and he tried to kick the blankets off, but his injured leg began to sear in protest immediately and his other leg was refusing to lift even a millimeter off the bed, devoid of any form of energy. It wasn't just the demon venom now. It wasn't even his fever. His room was simply too hot. It was like he'd been kept prisoner in an oven and he was slowly cooking. The air was heavy, and breathing was difficult. He could die right now. He could suffocate and die slowly, painfully.

Why weren't they doing anything about this?

"Please, let me see him. I have to see him. I promise I won't do anything to wake him. Just, please, let me see him."

He pried one eye open—he'd discovered some time ago that he was able to do that, but not for very long—and caught sight of a burly man completely filling up the doorway. He knew her voice. Even in his holy-water-drug-like haze, he recognized her voice, and he knew that she was just beyond that opening. "Miss, he needs his rest," his caregiver said, weary after having gone through this with Jocelyn and the rest of the Circle.

"But don't you understand? I'm the reason he's here! I need to see him." He wanted to beat the man keeping her from him to a bloody pulp, and even more so when her voice took on a pleading tone. "Have some compassion! He risked his life for me and you expect me to just leave it alone?"

"I can't let you see him. No one can see him. It will interrupt his sleep."

Apparently, Violet was through with being nice. "Standing here, arguing, is disturbing his sleep. If you'd just let me pass, I could take care of him, relieve you of your duties." Valentine could no longer keep his eye opened. He had to close it. He was tired and maintaining vision was slowly killing him. "Oh, my God!" she cried out in exasperation. "I have to see him. What will it take to make you let me see him?"

"Fine, fine," the man finally said, and Valentine could just imagine his caregiver, muscular and a foot taller than her, throwing his hands up and giving into this one girl's wishes where so many others have failed. "You can go in and see him. But, I hope you're serious about taking care of him."

He heard the shuffling of feet and the sound of a door clicking shut, but other than that, it was quiet. For a moment, he wondered if he'd fallen back into the darkness or if everything he'd seen and heard was a dream. And then he felt cold fingers stroke his hair-roughened cheek, and he sighed contentedly into the touch, trying his best to lean into it. He hadn't been dreaming, he realized with some relief. He liked it that he hadn't dreamt everything up, that she was really here with him.

"You've been asleep for four days now, Angel," she said softly, the mattress sinking as she sat on it. Valentine noted the tired tone she'd adopted and wished that he could take her hand. Perhaps had he not opened his eye earlier, he would've been able to. Now, he was simply too drained of energy to do anything. Her hand left his face and the young man felt strangely bereft, screaming in his mind for her to return. "I'm just going to bring this down a little bit. I feel like I'm roasting in this here room. I can only imagine what you must be feeling, trapped in here under a mountain of blankets and with a fever."

The air, having no ventilation, was thick in his room, and it was hot, but when it kissed his naked chest, he felt like he was in a slightly less hot level of hell. "When you wake, I'll drag you out of bed—truly, I will. I'll tear a blanket up and tie strips of cloth to your legs and literally drag you across the floor to the bathroom, and then I'm going to make a weak attempt at drowning you. I think you'll want to shave if you had your wits about you. Of course, we'll have to do something about that injury. I guess I'll just find—God, look at me, talking to an unconscious man. I must look like an idiot. Anyway, I hope you understand that what I'm trying to say is that I want you in the shower. It's stupid that they haven't put you through a bath yet."

Nodding took sheer will power, an undying determination, and he loathed the idea of doing it, and even more so when he moved his head up and down. Nevertheless, she had filled his head with visions of water running down his skin, spiriting him away from hell, and he wanted it. He would gladly keep himself submerged in the bathtub for a whole day had it been possible.

She saw his chin move out of the corner of her eye, her hands keeping away from idleness by repositioning the untouched jug of water on the bedside table, and nearly yelped when she realized that he'd nodded. "You just moved! You just nodded! Are you awake?" There was no response. She had been expecting a solid yes or maybe a look from him, but there was nothing. "Valentine?" His name rolled smoothly off her tongue, and she liked the sound of it. There'd never been anyone in her life named Valentine until he came along. "Valentine, you're awake, aren't you?" The person in question simply laid in his bed, still, only the barely-there rise and fall of his chest indicating that he was alive. "If I pull you up and you fall back down like deadweight, I'm leaving."

Somehow, the prospect of her leaving was unwelcomed to Valentine. She'd made him promises. Beautiful promises of water and coolness, and she was about to take it away, just like that. There was absolutely no way in hell that she was leaving him without getting him into water first. So when her delicate fingers wrapped around his wrists, he dug his elbows into the mattress to help prop him up. She pulled at him, at one hundred and seventy-six pounds of hard muscle, and thought her shoulders were about to pop out of their sockets. The man was a good four stones heavier than she. Honestly, she didn't know why she thought it'd be so easy to pull him up into a sitting position.

"Come on, Angel. I can't do this if you don't help me."

For his part, Valentine wanted to reach out and smack her on the side of her head. He _was _trying! It was just a little hard to put an effort into moving when every single tissue in his body was aching, when his muscles were screaming for him to lie back down and return to sleep. He pulled his hand out of her grasp and heard her gasp. They were getting nowhere with her pulling him. Thus, he'd been forced to endeavour in getting himself into a sitting position or he would never get that bath she'd been rambling on about.

He wanted to bathe.

Valentine felt the heels of his hands dig into the mattress as he pushed himself up, and his arms shook blatantly, like they were unashamed at the amount of force, of strength he'd had to exert to sit up. His torso had twisted so he was facing the bed, her back to him, and he opened both his eyes for the first time since the occurrence at the Academy, staring abhorrently at the white of the mattress. The mattress sank again and his mind conjured up an image of her leaning into him, one knee on the bed, one foot planted firmly on the floor, wanting to help him. He grunted inelegantly—he'd have to remind himself for a reprimand later—and pushed himself up the rest of the way, his shoulders having been set on fire.

One hand gripped the edge of the bed tightly while the other clutched the sheets to keep himself from falling. He turned around slowly, his body already exhausted from what it'd been put through, and his eyes flicked up to her face, meeting with her own. She was holding a small sheet of cerulean blue tarpaulin, and it was an eye sore. Her lips were parted, as if she wanted to say something, and she drew a breath, but no words were heard. Instead, she released him from his oven-like prison, yanking the rest of the covers down.

And then she burst out into laughter.

A look of such indignation passed through his face that she stopped laughing immediately, though he could see that she was struggling with withholding the rest of her laughter. "I'm sorry. I'm wasting time. It's just that I—could you imagine if you hadn't been wearing shorts?" For a moment, Valentine was confused, but it only lasted a moment. The next, understanding had lit up in his eyes, and he bestowed upon her a small smile.

She bent her body at a ninety degree angle, and he watched her silently, his smile fading quickly, as she wrapped the tarpaulin around the area of his wound, hiding the less-than-pristine white bandage from his view. He knew what bandages looked like. Heaven knows he'd used enough of them before this. They were white and they were clean and they never failed to remind him of hospitals, sterilized. But his had been a grotesque mix of yellow and a rusty shade of brown. He looked up at her again even as her hands were nimbly fastening the tarp to his calf, grateful that she didn't run out of the room in disgust.

Minutes later and she had him up on his feet, his arm draped over her shoulder, her right hand on his abdomen, prepared to steady him should something happen, her left arm across his waist, holding onto the IV drip and pulling it along behind them as she brought him slowly to the bathroom.

The soles of his feet touched the cold bathroom tiles and he shivered from the chill running through his person. Violet, however, took it the wrong way and urged him to move faster so he could sit on the edge of the tub.

He almost fell in.

Instantly, she jumped forward and latched onto him, her arms wrapped about his waist, forcing her close to him, his face buried in the crook where her neck met her shoulder. He sighed, tired, his arms limp at his sides. "Valentine—" her heart was racing within the confines of her chest and she felt her knees go weak. God, but he always made her react this way. "Do you think you could hold yourself up? I need to go get a chair for you. It doesn't seem safe to have you sitting here."

His hands braced against the bathtub's edge and he fixed his gaze pointedly at the mirror in front of him, his vision swimming, his head spinning. Seconds later, she was towing a chair along behind her into the bathroom and she set it down in front of him. She made to come to his aid, but he pushed himself off the bathtub before she could grab a hold of his arm and slumped into the chair.

Unfortunately, upon refusal of her help, his body became further strained, further tired, and his breathing came in short, shallow gasps. Violet had only just begun to walk out when she heard his short, sharp intakes of breath and she stopped. She stood at her spot near the door, however, and let her eyes follow him as he tried—and failed—to reach for the detachable shower head.

A sudden pain twisted in her chest, and she slipped her slippers off, taking big strides to get to him faster. She sat on the edge of the tub, where he'd been earlier, directly opposite him and took his hand in her own, resting it on her knee. "There's nothing wrong with asking for help," she murmured, her eyes never meeting his face (or any other part of him, for that matter) as she reached out for the shower head. She tested the water running out of it, ascertaining that it was warm enough and then held the shower just above the tarp. When rivulets of water ran down the material, a testament to its waterproof qualities, she got up and suspended the shower head above his head, running her fingers through his hair, making sure that not one strand was left dry.

It felt good to have the water run down his feverish skin, and he felt even better when she began to massage his scalp, easing the thundering pressure on his brain. For the second time since she'd been with him, he sighed contentedly. Valentine cleared his throat and whispered hoarsely, his first attempt at speaking, "Thank…you…"

Behind him, she nodded, handing the shower head to him. He took it from her, waiting to hear the door shut. Instead, he found her hands on his shoulders, lathered in soap, and after a few moments, she started to move them. Over his shoulders and down his arms her hands went, and then they travelled to his back. She looked to the soap bottle, distracting herself by reading the label and whatever the hell else she could find on that one bottle so she wouldn't watch the way the water slid down his biceps, down his back and how the muscles in his back flexed when he moved forward a little.

The wet fabric of his shorts clung to the shape of his legs and his cheeks turned red when she came back to the front and eased herself onto the edge of the bathtub, bending over so she could reach the part of his legs that weren't covered by the damp material, her head perilously close to resting on his thigh. After that, there was only a thorough wash of his hair left to attend to, and then she helped rinse him off and disappeared back into the room.

The door had been left open a crack and when he could no longer see her shadow, he quickly snatched the towel she'd left hanging near the tub and didn't bother with wiping off the water dripping from his hair down his body. He stripped off his shorts and wrapped the towel about his waist, and then she came in bearing his clothes and a toothbrush. Then she was gone again.

Valentine did what needed to be done. He brushed his teeth, getting only mildly annoyed by the stubble he was sporting, borne out of a few days of not shaving, and then put on whatever she'd brought him. After, he cleared his throat, knowing well that she would be waiting just outside the door and would hear him, and indeed, she did. Violet led him back to his bed, moving slowly as she pulled the IV and walked backwards towards the piece of furniture, watching him take small steps.

His feet weighed a tonne and it took a tremendous amount of trying on his part to lift them off the floor and move towards his bed. Once they were close enough, he unlaced his fingers from between hers and crawled onto the other side of the bed, leaving space for her to sit should she wish to accompany him for a little longer. He fell heavily onto the mattress, and then closed his eyes.

"Do you feel better?" he heard her say. He simply nodded, too sleepy to talk. "Do you want a drink?" He gave a small shake of his head, descending further into a state of unawareness. "I suppose I should redress your bandage." He nodded again and a moment later, he felt her take a pair of scissors to his leg and cut through the offensive material. She peeled it off his skin, her eyes glued upon the wound adorning his calf. "I'm sorry," she blurted out.

"Hmm?" One eye opened and he watched her carefully.

She looked him squarely in the eye, a first for that night, and repeated herself. "I'm sorry." He frowned and a tear spilled forth onto her cheek. He started to move, but she put her hands up and shook her head. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry for getting you into this mess in the first place. I'm sorry I made you get bitten by a poisonous, freaky creature." More tears rolled down her cheeks and she stopped talking to breathe. "When they were tending to you, I couldn't come here. Ivan waited outside. Jocelyn waited outside. Madi waited outside. But I hid in some big, gray room. I wasn't here. And every time you slept, I kept worrying that you would leave, that you leave me. I'm sorry. You were fighting for your life and all I could be was selfish."

He offered her no response. He simply cracked his other eye open and looked at her, his expression unreadable, and she knew he hated her now that he knew what she was really like—ungrateful, selfish. She wiped her tears away with the back of her hand, sniffling in an attempt to clear her nose of the blockage that had suddenly appeared, and then went to work on covering up his wound. He took his eyes off of her as well and turned his attention to the wound he's had for a number of days now, he should think, and focused on it. The gash in his leg was oozing a yellowish brown puss, and his stomach roiled.

Valentine buried his face in the pillow, closing his eyes once more. He felt her dab at his wound with something—it felt like cotton—and then splash some liquid onto it. He flinched, wincing and she stopped everything she was doing in an instant. It was very likely that she hadn't known the liquid she'd used to clean his wound was holy water. Afraid of causing him anymore pain, she placed a thin layer of cloth over the gash and then secured it within the bandage she wrapped around his calf.

His lips were parted to aid in his breathing, his arms crossed over his chest. He truly did feel better. The headache he'd possessed earlier was now a dull throbbing in his head and his skin was no longer set ablaze. Now, he would try a hand in falling asleep. Perhaps he'd feel better in the morning, and then he could get to speaking to her about her apology. She'd cried while apologizing. Her remorse was clawing at him, catching his attention. He _really_ had to talk to her whenever he woke up.

Not that he was assuming she would be around when he did.

He heard her sigh and the mattress sank again. He was beginning to accustom himself to that bit of movement. It had happened often enough. Her hand—still colder than his own—came to rest upon his and she squeezed it as tightly as she dared, which wasn't tight at all. She probably thought him asleep. "I truly am sorry, Angel." Valentine would've brushed it off again, having decided that he would talk some sense into her the next day, but that was before something wet landed on his knuckle, and then ran down the rest and his eyes once again opened.

_Tears._

Without thinking, he tugged at her hand, pulling her towards him, laying her down next to him. She exclaimed in surprise as the back of her head landed on a pillow. He didn't know exactly what had gotten into him, what could possibly possess him to do something like that. He just wanted her with him. His sleep was haunted by her and he couldn't stand to not see her again for so long a time.

She fidgeted, trying to get up and out of his bed. But then he wrapped his arms around her, like iron bands holding her close to him, and for that one moment, she allowed herself to relax against him. She sighed, and then placed a hand on his chest, watching his sleeping face. He looked precious in sleep, adorable, his hair falling into his face. "I'm sorry," she said again, softer this time. Then she picked up on the stinging in her eyes and realized, with some surprise, that she was sleepy. She stifled a yawn and let her eyelids fall close.

"It's alright," his reply came, his voice just as soft as hers. He was so tired, like he'd just finished running a marathon. "People do stupid things for love."


	17. Chapter Sixteen

**A/N: So I forced myself to update today because my exams are coming up and I think that this could be my last chapter for quite some time. The terrifying finals are from 20.10.2011 until 03.11.2011 so I don't know if I'll be able to update again. I really need to start focusing on studying. Anyway, since this could be my last update for a rather long period of time, I have decided to leave a little something-something for you and it's leaving me wondering if I should change the rating of this story. Lololol. The plot also sort of moves along so I hope that you, my dear Reader, will be kept in suspense while I die over my finals. As usual, R&R. Reviews only serve to make me love you more.**

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She was moving in his arms. Wiggling, really. Like a worm. Like a very warm worm. On fire. And trying to wiggle to safety. She was just wiggling. What in the hell was she doing?

Valentine moaned in protest to her movements—which could only be described as frantic—and, though reluctant to separate himself from the only form of warmth he'd experienced in the past few days that wasn't trying to throw him into hell, he relinquished his hold on her, lying flat on his back. Both his arms were like liquid, and as soon as he released her, they eagerly rushed back to a position in which they had something to rest on and now, they were slack, devoid of energy, on either of his sides.

In retrospect, pulling her into his bed while she was apologizing may not have been the brightest of ideas. He'd been impossibly tired and she'd been crying almost to the point of hyperventilating. Emotional strain tended to drain energy from oneself and he should've known that she would've fallen asleep. He also should've known that he wouldn't be awake long enough to let her have her sleep and then wake her before someone came in and caught them. Granted, they hadn't done anything, but no one knew that.

So, yes, Valentine Morgenstern knew that he shouldn't have pulled her into bed with him. He could just form a scene in his mind—with incredible vividness—where she was picking up discarded items of clothing, wrapped up in a sheet which was, in reality, non-existent.

But they hadn't done anything, and because of that, it wouldn't be a scene straight out of a movie. She wouldn't be moving about the room in a state of panic, thrusting her limbs into the wrong holes of the wrong articles of clothing. She wouldn't have to do that because she was fully-clothed. So what would she be doing?

Out of curiosity, Valentine pried an eye open, although it wasn't done with a small amount of difficulty. He was still somewhat less than lucid and all credits were to be given to the seemingly endless supply of holy water making a playfield out of his demon-poison-ravaged body. She was sitting with her back to him, her legs dangling over the edge of the bed, her arms crossed over her abdomen, almost as if she were hugging herself.

He cleared his throat, more out of the sickly sensation building up inside it than to catch her attention, but it worked well with the latter and she looked over her shoulder at him. "Oh," she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry. I didn't think I'd wake you."

The Shadowhunter said the first thing that came to his mind, "You were wiggling about like a worm in hell," and promptly bit down harshly on his tongue, tasting the familiar taste of rusty metal that was distinctive to blood.

She laughed, a warm one, and turned to face him, folding her legs and propped her elbows on them before letting her face fall into her hands. "I'm sorry," she said again. "It was just so warm." She lifted her face from her upturned palms and looked at him shyly, a blush creeping up to her cheeks. "_You're_ so warm."

"Ah, so my comparison of you to a worm on fire was perfect, wasn't it?"

"Yes, Mr Morgenstern. You hit the proverbial nail right on its head." She'd adopted a deeper tone of voice and he knew that she was imitating his caregiver, and he laughed, which caused her to somehow jump off the bed with her legs still folded and clapped her hands with glee. "He laughs! That was the first time I've ever heard you laugh." He smiled graciously at her. "Luke says that you're so serious, so determined on your goals that you are incapable of laughing."

He scoffed in mock bruised ego. "He said that now, did he?" He smiled again, but it slowly disappeared. There was nothing more he would like than to watch her and her expressions and speak with her, but his head was beginning to throb. He shouldn't be keeping his eyes open for so long. Alright then, old boy, time to close your eyes, he thought. Following that was a hesitant drooping and, ultimately, closing of his eyelids, and he sighed deeply, settling into his pillows and the comfortable duvet that masked the bone-aching hardness of the mattress.

"You must be completely robbed of energy right now, huh? I should stop talking now, shouldn't I?" That earned her a chuckle. And then she was quiet, and Valentine suspected that she hadn't moved at all. The mattress hadn't sunk, the duvet hadn't rustled. She was completely still, completely quiet. He should say something. "I know I should stop talking and let you rest, but—this is stupid."

Her voice was filled with such exasperation—and he could've sworn he heard a hint of disappointment—that he had to open his eyes once more and look at her. She was blurry at first, and then he saw two of her, but slowly, she came into focus and he watched her watch him. Her eyes were different again, a darker shade of blue. He should start panicking now. The only other time her eyes had been blue—it was a lighter blue, but it was blue, nonetheless—was back in the carriage, when someone had played with his mind.

Tell her! His mind screamed. He had to tell her what happened in the carriage. She would finally have reassurance that she hadn't gone crazy. "Vi—"

"Can I kiss you?"

Even while he was laying down, flat on his back, Valentine thought he felt himself fall. It was like a big gaping hole just his size had opened up in the bed and he was falling through it. And he didn't think he was about to hit solid ground any time soon. "Kiss me?" he managed to rasp out. He wasn't entirely certain what he was expecting. Perhaps he'd been waiting for a shake of her head or even a sentence that would cancel out her question. Maybe he was just waiting for her to crawl over to him, lean down and kiss him. He didn't know what he wanted her to do, but Violet was silent, and she watched him as if the fate of her world was in his hands.

Surely all of this would now disappear bit by bit as if carried upon butterfly wings. Someone was toying with his mind again and now that he'd realized it, they wouldn't be able to keep up their game. This would all go away and he would see, in the place of this girl sitting expectantly before him, her sweatshirt clad back—_his_ sweatshirt.

Violet licked her lips, but it wasn't in the slow, sexy way that spelt it out plainly how much she wanted him to kiss her. It was more of an 'I can't believe I just did that' lick. "I can't believe I just did that," her accent was heavier now, nerves getting the better of her. "I can't believe I just did that. That was so stupid."

She started to move away, making to get out of the bed, and then he said to her, "You can."

His eyes were glued to her as she slowly turned back around and crawled to her original position, and when she looked at him—_really_ looked at him—he found his eyes drawn to her own. Along the way, he saw that her lips were parted slightly, in stark contrast with his own which were tightly sealed. He waited for her, and she made absolutely no move to make their kiss become a reality. Valentine gave her a small smile, then said, "You can't kiss me from all the way over there, can you?"

As if snapped out of a reverie—or perhaps thrust into one—she began to move towards him, every little movement more pronounced to his eyes, more exaggerated, _sexier_. She was on her hands and knees, crawling, her face framed by the waves of brown hair he could recognize anywhere. Everything in the room became painfully enunciated. He could hear her breathing as well as his. The two candles on the nightstand seemed to glow brighter, the wind blowing in through the partially opened windows singing past them, providing them with their very own theme song.

She leaned over him, her hand upon his chest, her hair tickling his cheek, prompting him to reach out and tuck the few locks behind her ear. And then his hand lingered on her cheek. She leaned into his touch, her eyes closing. "Valentine," she said to him, her voice low, bringing back memories of the carriage that he quickly pushed aside. She was so close now. He could feel her breath on his lips and he could almost taste her kiss.

However, in staying true to himself, Valentine took the last few seconds into his control and had both hands now on her face, slowly pulling her down onto him. Her lips were parted to aid her breathing and truly, it was an innocent move, but upon seeing it, Valentine lost control and groaned before capturing her lips. She had barely enough time to gasp before her lips were pressed against his.

Their lips moved against each other with ease, like they were more than familiar with the movements. He could sense her eagerness. The kiss was for her as much as it was for him, but she truly did want to make him happy, and thus was wanting to give everything she could to him. Valentine, though, was a more thoughtful lover and he wanted to give her time to adjust and stop the wild beating of her heart that he was sure could defeat the fluttering of a hummingbird's wings. One of his hands travelled down the length of her back and deftly dived into her shirt. He felt her shiver as their skin came into contact and she moaned into his mouth. He started to rub circles into the small of her back, soothing her.

And then he was dragged out of his body and dropped right in the middle of the battle that had taken place in Academy almost a week ago. He recognized the sprawling green fields of his school and, more importantly, he recognized her brown hair under a tree, a Drevak in front of her. Just as he had on that day, despite the fact that he now knew what was going to happen to him, he ran to her, his seraph blade held tightly in his hand.

She was just standing there, looking at it, not attempting to run, and not attempting to kill. She was doing nothing. She was simply looking into its eyes, blood dripping down her index finger, landing in fat droplets on the ground. One look at the Drevak should've told her to run away screaming. He knew that the Drevak was a messenger more than anything, but she didn't know that, and the sight of something so hideously deformed should've been making her climb up the tree. So why in the devil wasn't she doing anything?

Valentine opened his mouth, starting to call out her name. Demonology hadn't taught him that Drevaks could hypnotize, but maybe this one was different. It had certainly broken away from the mold when it attacked her. "Don't."

He swiveled on his heels only to be greeted with nothing. All that he met was Shadowhunters in battle, furiously trying to save what was supposed to be the safest place in all of Idris. He turned back to her, his legs taking him to her. God help him, but she was still standing there, still as a statue. He began to call for her again when he heard that blasted voice from right behind him. Once more, he turned around. There was nothing.

"Stop imagining things, Valentine," he told himself as he continued on his way to her.

Finally, he was within a near enough distance to easily reach out and grab her, and that was exactly what he intended to do. He would grab her by her arm and then toss her over his shoulder and take her to the Hall. Were the Drevak to attack, he'd shove his seraph blade into its eye and make a run for it. He hardly needed to stay and kill a Drevak when she was already out of harm's way.

And then there was that voice again. "No, stop. Look at the Drevak, Valentine Morgenstern. Really look at it."

His head whipped to his right where the voice had been, but there was no one. He was hearing voices and they weren't in his head. They were tangible. He could hear them as clearly as he could hear the sound of metal upon metal, of panic-stricken voices shouting. He heard it with his ears. It wasn't like the voice he'd heard in the carriage. This one was real, from the outside world, not his mind. So he looked at the Drevak, just as the voice asked him to.

"Not like that," the obviously male voice sounded. "Stop thinking. Look at it properly, with your heart of hearts." _My heart of_—good God, but the voice was now his spiritual adviser! "Look at it, Valentine Morgenstern, and perhaps you could help her."

He looked at it, trying hard to cease all form of thought, to block everything off, and then he heard it—a voice so raspy and oozed slimy, vomit-inducing feelings, it couldn't have possibly belonged to a human. It could only be one thing. "Rose—"

Rose? _Rose?_ He must've heard wrong. Or maybe it hadn't been talking to Violet at all. Maybe it was talking to someone else. And there was even a chance that the Drevak before Violet hadn't been the one talking. Rose?

The soft feel of her lips was soon absent against his and he was wrenched back to his reality. He was in the room again, Violet kneeling next to him, her cheeks burning red, her eyes alit with a sparkle he couldn't quite put his finger on and her lips were moist. Before he knew what he was doing, before he could even talk himself out of it, he reached for the girl and pulled her closer to him. Given no other choice, having nowhere else to move and with his insistence, Violet straddled his hips even as he pulled her down onto him and captured her lips once again.

Her hands were on his shoulders, kneading, and his hands were roaming all over her person, down her shoulders, over her sides. She pulled away from him and arched her back, moaning as his hand brushed past a particularly sensitive part of her hips, tickling it. "Valentine," she whispered hotly, and he quickly swept her up in another kiss.

Why wasn't he being transported back to the rolling fields? Why couldn't he see the Drevak? It had taken but one kiss to get him there the first time. Why couldn't he go back now?

Come on, Valentine, he thought. Be more passionate. Perhaps that was what it needed. Whatever it was he'd seen, it had been in her mind, in her memory and maybe the reason he was unable to go back was because she was trapping her thoughts, forming a wall around them. He had to tear down that barrier.

Valentine licked her bottom lip, begging for entry and as soon as her mouth opened, his tongue darted in. The dance their tongues were locked in, he didn't know whether it was for control or passion, but he did know that he wasn't in the Academy at the time of the attack yet. _"Not enough,"_ his own voice chimed in his head.

With that thought in mind, he slipped his hands under the sweatshirt she wore, under the shirt underneath and let them roam freely up her naked back. And then they came into contact with the straps of her bra and he followed it until he found the hook at the back. He couldn't unsnap it. He was trying to get back to the battle, but he couldn't do that to her. He wouldn't be able to see anything, it was true, but what would she think about him if he did it? He couldn't unsnap it.

And then he was back under the tree. "Stop thinking. Look at it properly, with your heart of hearts," the voice said again.

Now that he knew what to do, it didn't take him very long to hear the Drevak's voice and then process its words. "Rose, stop running. Don't think. You belong to him. You know that and he knows that, and he wants you back. Stop running."

"No," she mouthed the words, no sound was heard, but she might as well have screamed it. Valentine felt like he'd been slapped in the face. Rose couldn't be her name. She'd told him it was Violet, when they were returning from Paris. She had violet eyes and her parents hadn't been very creative and they named her Violet. She told him that.

"Look at what he's done for you," the Drevak continued to say to Violet—Rose. Whoever the hell she was. "He did all this for you. He wants you back, Rose, and he will get you back. If you don't come willingly, then he'll come for you forcefully. You won't escape him. He always gets what he wants."

"Valentine, wait," she said, pushing herself away from him, trying to put an arm's length between them. His fingers had been playing with the hooks of her bra and one had come undone. Wanting more answers, he made to kiss her again, but she resisted and said once more, "Wait."

He couldn't wait. He needed more answers! In a bid to return to the oak tree, he ran his hands up and down her sides, finding the sensitive spot that'd caused her to moan earlier. She didn't moan this time, but she shivered, and he took that as a sign of her ardor. "Valentine," she whispered. Despite everything, despite his confusion, despite the rage that was beginning to build inside him, the front of his pants grew tighter and he groaned as he ground his hips against hers. The bulge in his pants was unmistakable, impossible to miss, and such as it were, she scrambled off of him to the other side of the bed, her arms once more crossing over her abdomen in a self-hug. "I'm not ready for that."

The Shadowhunter propped himself up on his elbow and looked directly at her. For a moment, she returned his gaze, but then it became unbearable. He looked angry. Above all, he looked like he was angry with her. She knew that some men got frustrated when denied sexual favours, but somehow she hadn't ever thought of him as one of them. And so, unable to look at him without tears springing to her eyes, she cast them down, avoiding his accusing eyes.

Under any other circumstance, it would've killed him to behave that way towards her, but he was _coldly_ angry, _furiously _angry, and he wanted to lash out at her. "Oh, but our little darling is a tease, isn't she?" he bit off. "A beautiful woman like you surely realizes that she would make any male's blood boil, and now you're holding out on me? Might I remind you, my dear, that _you_ came onto me. _You_ asked for a kiss. Why the sudden shyness when only a minute ago, you were brazen hussy?"

"I don't need this from you." Her voice trembled, but behind that, there was fury. "I thought you were different, but I guess I was wrong. You're just the same as every other _boy_ out there."

He laughed harshly. "Ah, the kitten has claws."

Violet-Rose-whoever-she-was shook her head, tears beginning to cloud her vision and spill over onto her cheeks. "I never thought you could be like this," she said to him, looking up at the ceiling. And then she directed her gaze to him, at the man who, not a minute ago, was her idea of the perfect fairytale prince. Now she couldn't look at him without her lower lip quivering, without tears stinging her eyes every half a second.

A thousand and one knives pierced into his chest then, tearing away at his heart. God, but he hated seeing her cry. But this was it. This was the time. If he didn't do it now, he would never know. And he needed to know desperately. He needed to know that he wasn't falling in love with the wrong person. And so, though his fingers were trembling, he said to her, "What's wrong, _Rose_?"

Her eyes were wide and doe-like as she looked at him, shock plainly written in bold all over her face—and he received the confirmation he'd needed. People did the dumbest things for love. That's what he'd told her only a few hours ago as she cried in his arms. They did stupid things because they were blind. But Valentine hadn't been blind. He'd been misled.

She'd lied to him.


	18. Chapter Seventeen

**A/N: So, I will admit that this isn't one of my better writings. I was planning on writing a whole different thing entirely, but somehow it became this. *shrugs* Anyway, I apologise profusely for having taken so long to update. Before this, I was busy with my finals and after that, I was busy packing. I should think that after this, I will be busy unpacking. Never fear, though. I will try my very best to get a chapter out each week. So, anyway, we are now at chapter seventeen and the story has been moving along very slowly until now. The chapters following, I think, will get longer as I try to finish this story in under thirty chapters and finally give Valentine his ending. Right, now, about this chapter.**

**WARNING: FLUFF AND VALENTINE ACTING COMPLETELY OUT OF CHARACTER! LIKE, COMPLETELY COMPLETELY. I apologise for any deaths due to boredom in the reading of this chapter, and as usual, R&R...even if you have nothing nice to say. :)**

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He shouldn't have written any of those things in his textbook, and much less while in History class. Professor Clemency, despite his old age, had eyes like that of a hawk's. Of course he would have spotted the one student scribbling away on his textbook while everyone else was busy paying attention to his lesson, hanging onto his every word so they wouldn't fail the quiz he had in store for them tomorrow. Now, here he was, walking down the one hallway he never thought he'd ever have to step on—the path to the headmaster's office.

He should have known better. He knew that he should have known better, if that made any sense at all. Even as he was writing those words, he kept thinking to himself that he should stop. But, by the Angel, it was hard. It was hard to stop writing. It was hard to stop thinking about her. She made him feel like he had to get every bloody word out onto paper, like it was the only way he could breathe again. And she didn't have any right at all to be angry with him. If anything, he should angry with her. After all, he'd been the one to be cheated and lied to. The woman—girl? She was only sixteen and so was Jocelyn and he always referred to her as a girl—had lied to his face without so much as a hint of remorse.

And after all that he had done for her!

The woman—_girl_ had no shame. How could she have kissed him so passionately, knowing that she was hiding the truth from him? Didn't kisses signify some form of importance to the female of his species?

Valentine was furious with her. Or he was trying to be, at the very least. But, God help him, he couldn't stop thinking about her and how much he wanted to see her again. Of course, that yearning was always waylaid by a different type of yearning altogether—the need to berate her and then punch her in the face. He'd entertained thoughts of beating her to a bloody pulp, but had decided that he wasn't going to go that far.

Why was he always doing this to himself? There he'd gone again, thinking about her and ranting and hating her and missing her. Ah, but he really did miss her. Perhaps he'd been too harsh with her. Maybe she had a valid reason for having lied to him, although he didn't think that there was ever a valid reason to lie to the man that she asked to kiss. Shouldn't that have meant that she liked him? So why lie?

I have to stop thinking about her, he thought, and just as those words popped into his head, he heard another set of words, spoken by a voice that didn't belong to him. He must already be at his destination, at the headmaster's office. He could see the dark wood door begin to open, but he watched it with a peculiar sense of detachment and said quietly to himself, "And so begins my death and expulsion." Between the two, he didn't know which was worse.

"You may enter, Mr Morgenstern," the headmaster said from behind his desk.

The man hadn't bothered to get up as a sign of respect for his guest, and that ought to have slighted Valentine, but he was past courtesies. This giant of a man—because, truly, even seated behind his desk, there was no hiding the headmaster's size—was going to deliver him to his doom and not getting out of his seat was the last thing Valentine needed to think about. The headmaster, whose name was Alcide Farrow but was more commonly known as Sir, had eyes of hazel and green and his skin was a russet brown. His shirt hid no details of his biceps, and they were clear as day to see from underneath the material. He was a ferocious man, but then again, the Clave would never choose a man who was frail and weak and incapable of training the next generation of Shadowhunters to head the Academy.

Looking at the way the headmaster eyed him, the way he looked upon him as if he were nothing more than an ant beneath his feet, made Valentine want to jump across the room, over the table and wrap his fingers around the man's neck, crush his trachea, cutting off his air supply and watch him turn limp in that high-back, leather chair of his. But he couldn't do that. The Clave would find him and he would be thrown into the crypt, never to see sunlight again.

"So, Mr Morgenstern, it was Professor Clemency who has sent you here to see me. Would you like to tell me what that was about?"

Valentine looked him dead in the eye, almost challenging the older man to do something about it, as he said, "I was writing in my textbook while he was teaching. Sir."

"And they were not notes, I presume?"

The condescendence laced into his every word nearly drove the young Shadowhunter mad. His blood was rushing—truly _rushing_—in his veins and he felt his cheeks grow warmer. "No, Sir. They were not."

"Your teacher has provided me with a copy of what you have written down in your text book. Shall I read it to you, Mr Morgenstern?"

Was it truly so wrong if he were to kill the man? "No, Sir, that will not be necessary," he said with much difficulty, trying to make his words audible and intelligible through the grinding of his teeth. "I know all that I have written."

"Oh, good. So we can simply get down to business then." He leaned forward in his seat, gesturing for Valentine to make himself comfortable in a chair directly opposite from him. Once he'd been seated and was at eye level with the Academy's headmaster, the older man sighed and something clouded his eyes. Something that looked rather like concern and pity. _Pity_? The headmaster sighed, and it was one that told of a long suffering. "Valentine," he said, and the younger man tensed slightly in his seat at the blatant use of his first name, "what happened to you on the day of the attack was a terrible thing, and what happened to you afterward was worse." Valentine was careful not to suck in his breath when he heard what the older man had to say. Surely he knew nothing about Rose. "You almost died a number of times and, in all those times, most of us truly believed that you would depart from this world. But you didn't, and you will make a full recovery physically. However, I understand that coming so close to death is not something that can be brushed off quite so easily, and I hope you understand that none will judge you if you admit to having been imprinted by emotional trauma."

"Emotional trauma, Sir?"

"Have you ever spoken to anyone about these thoughts you have? These feelings? They are not healthy for you, Valentine, and you must get it out of your system." Valentine started to open his mouth to say something, to protest to what the headmaster was implying, to tell him that he was not suicidal, but before he could, the only other person in the room continued his words. "I would be more than happy to write you a slip and excuse you from your classes while you speak to the school's counselor."

The young Shadowhunter gave a small shake of his head. "With all due respect, Sir, I don't need to see the counselor. I'm not—"

"Then perhaps you would like some time to yourself today? To sort out everything that's going through your mind? I wouldn't mind excusing you from the rest of your classes today."

"Thank you, Sir, but I'm afraid I must decline. I've already missed out on so much of my studies as a result of my physiotherapy."

The headmaster's eyes went hard and steely as he looked at the student before him. "No. No, I will not allow you to decline. You forget, Valentine, that I have been in your shoes before. I've never had to experience anything nearly as devastating as what you have had to endure, but I was and still am a Shadowhunter and I know how you must feel. This time, my boy, I am not asking you to leave lessons. I am telling you to."

He handed Valentine a square green slip and motioned for him to leave his office. Though reluctant, the young man reached for the extended piece of paper and got out of his seat, dipping his head a little bit in respect of his headmaster, and walked silently across the carpeted floor to exit through the door.

And bumped right into someone a full head shorter than him.

"Madi?" he said, sounding almost too surprised.

She looked up at him and smiled sheepishly. "Hey. I didn't ever think to see you here."

"I…the headmaster wanted to have a word with me."

"Yeah, I can see that. I can also see that you've got a little green slip." She held up a shockingly pink piece of paper for him to see. "I got Mr Pink. It's a slip from the librarian excusing me from my previous classes on account of having helped her rearrange the books in the library. Did you know that we have approximately eight thousand books in that creaky old place?"

"Umm, yes. It was one of the first things I learned about this school when I enrolled. I spent a lot of time in the library."

"Well, anyway, I just had to drop by and get the headmaster's seal from his secretary so I won't get into trouble when I go back to class. And you're obviously on your way back to your dorm and I'm heading in the same way. Would you mind if I walked with you?" Valentine had already started the first syllable of what would be an eloquent let down speech, and knowing this, Madi quickly said, "We can talk about Violet."

He'd been thinking about the nicest way to tell Madi no, but when he heard that name, all thoughts made a mad dash for the window and jumped out. "You mean Rose?" Madi, for once, looked taken aback by what the Circle leader had said and it was made evident by the widening of her eyes. Another thing that was made clear to Valentine fairly quickly was that she'd known all along about Rose, about her name. She would tell Madi about the truth of herself, but not him? "I don't think I'm quite in the mood for Rose right now." And with that, he started to walk away, unwilling to acknowledge the stabbing sensation in his chest. That stupid, god damned proverbial white hot blade. And he would have continued walking had it not been for Madi's sudden proclamation of, "SHE MISSES YOU!"

That stopped Valentine dead in his tracks and, though he couldn't believe he was doing so, he waited until he could hear the fifteen year old's footsteps and waited some more until the sounds came to a halt next to him. They walked in silence for what seemed like a very long time, but he knew that it couldn't have been more than two minutes. Although, two minutes did feel like forever when he had to lean on his cane every time he took a step with his injured leg. For her part, Madi, too, was silent beside him. There was a bounce in her step and her short hair was perfectly fine with bouncing along with it, and she looked pleased with herself.

Finally, unable to withstand his burning curiosity any longer, Valentine cleared his throat and provided an opening to their conversation. "Did she tell you that?"

"No," she replied coolly, as if what she'd said wasn't going to sting one bit. He was on the verge of repeating what she'd only just told him, but bit on his tongue before the single-syllable word could leave his lips. So what she hadn't told Madi that she'd missed him? "But, you know, I could see it in her eyes."

He wanted to fold his hands behind his back, but he couldn't do that with a godforsaken cane in one hand, and thus, he had nothing to channel his discomfort into. "So you made an assumption?"

"It's more of a knowing feeling, the kind where you're just sure of it. I don't think that should be called an assumption."

"She lied to me," he said before he could put a stop to the words he'd strung together.

The fifteen year old next to him didn't even bother to look at him when she heard his words. She'd expected to hear something of that nature. "So? You can't tell me that you've never lied to anyone before? Can you tell me that?" He was quiet, and a smirk crept onto her face. At least she'd gotten him thinking. Now, it was time to go in for a kill. "I'm sure she has a good reason for doing that, lying to you. Don't you want to give her another chance? You obviously miss her, too."

Valentine turned his head to look at her and this time, he met her eyes. He almost laughed at the extremely pleased expression on her face. She was enjoying this too much. "She needs my help," he said to her softly. "And I promised her that I would help her. I never go back on my word."

"Right, 'cause a gentleman never goes back on his word. Isn't that what they always say in the movies?" She smiled at him, a bright, brilliant smile, and Valentine wanted to shoot himself on the spot. She was so strange sometimes, he wondered why he recruited her into the Circle in the first place. And she was certainly far too knowledgeable—or perhaps the word was romantic—for a fifteen year old. "You know, in romance novels, when a gentleman likes a lady, he courts her. He takes her out on a date and stuff. And when they get into a fight, the gentleman normally tries his best to right his wrongs, make her happy again."

"And if the cause of their problem wasn't the gentleman in the first place? What then?"

"Doesn't matter. He'd still try to make her feel better. The last thing a woman on the brink of depression needs to hear is that she was the problem and that the man she loves isn't going to do anything to fix things, fix her." The both of them were silent for a moment or two, Valentine deep in thought and Madi waiting for him to finish being deep in thought. "And, fights in romance novels usually last for about two days before the gentleman feels really bad and tries to win his lady's heart again. I think two and a half weeks should be more than enough time—oh! Look where we are! I must have walked right past my class."

The Shadowhunter turned to his left, where his companion was looking and saw the huge double doors to the library open and a young woman with long brown hair and dressed in a simple jeans and t-shirt get up peering over the counter to get to a pen. The teenage girl to his right muttered something about having walked past her class and that she should be getting back, and before he knew it, he was alone in the corridor, his injured leg screaming bloody murder. The library seemed much too far away for his liking, but his dorm was further still and he should get some rest. The doctor had said that too much physical exertion would bring more damage to his leg.

Step by step he took to the library's doors, and when he was within an arm's length of one of them, he reached out and grabbed it to steady himself. The door creaked and the young woman in the massive room looked up from the counter. They were quiet, and they looked at each other as if they each had five heads. Valentine didn't dare to speak. He wouldn't know what to say anyway. He'd spent two and a half weeks being angry at her and now that she was right in front of him, it seemed like he was much too tired to tell her any of the things he'd thought up in the time he'd been away from her.

Finally, he took a deep breath to calm his rapidly beating heart, and said to her, "Hello."

Rose tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear and gave him a small nod of acknowledgement. The tension in the air was thick enough to be sliced through with a knife and distributed to everyone in the Academy like pieces of pie. "Would you, uh, like to have a seat? Luke told me that your leg wasn't all that better yet."

Ah, so she has been keeping up with my progress, he thought. Should he feel flattered? "A seat sounds nice, yes."

He started to move towards an armchair at the same time she walked towards it and cleared the chair of books. He fell non-too-gracefully into the chair, and straightened his injured leg out, looking up at her from his position. "Rose," the name felt strange on his tongue now that she was in front of him, "why don't you sit as well?" She turned to look at the pile of books littered across the front of the counter, a form of protest. She was trying to tell him that she was busy. Well, God damn it all to hell, her and her books! "I think that we need to talk."

And just like that, a million and one things gushed out of her in sentences he could barely make out. She was speaking so quickly. The only thing he'd been able to understand was when she said she was sorry, towards the end of her incredibly long speech. "I'm sorry. I really am. I wish that I hadn't lied to you. I wish that I'd have put a stop to it the minute I thought of lying to you about who I was. I don't know what I was thinking. I just—I didn't…"

"You didn't trust me," he finished for her. Rose turned her face away from him as soon as he'd finished talking, but he saw the tear that rolled down her cheek. "Could I ask you just one question, though?" Her nod was barely perceptible, but he caught it. "Why didn't you trust me? After I had promised to help you, after the things I'd done in an attempt to help you, why didn't you trust me?"

A sigh. A very audible sigh. She hadn't yet to return to looking at him, but a sigh was a start. It meant that she was as tired of this as he was. "Angel, I'm still trying to decide whether or not you're a complete psychopath, with your Shadowhunters and demons and a country that doesn't exist on any world map. How could you expect me to be okay with all those things in such a short time? How could you ask me to trust you when I barely even knew you? And how was I to be sure that this isn't just some big mind game that whoever it is that's after me has set up? What if _I_ was making all this up? What if I'm crazy? What if you aren't real?"

"What if what we're feeling is all a big lie?" He spoke the words softly, so only the both of them would hear. No one else needed to know of what he'd said. No one else would understand, anyhow. And Rose, upon hearing his words, fell onto the table, wrapping her arms so tightly around herself, she felt certain that she could make her heart stop beating. Valentine moved closer to her, perching on the edge of his seat. "Do you feel like all this is a big lie? That what I'm feeling, what you're feeling, isn't real?"

Her hair fell across her face, hiding her tears, hiding everything. Valentine shut his eyes. He felt so stupid. The only time he'd ever bared quite so much of himself to someone, and it had to be a person who didn't trust him. Perhaps the headmaster had been right in giving him the day off. He clearly had many issues to sort out. But, hell, he'd gone this far to stop now. What was it that Madi had said? It didn't matter who was at fault. If a gentleman truly loved a lady, he would still try his best to make her feel better?

The sunlight streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows almost blinded him when he opened his eyes, but his previously wildly beating heart was now thumping a steady rhythm in his chest and taking her hand felt like the easiest, most logical thing in the world to do. "Because I feel that all this is real. What I'm feeling for you is just a hair breadth away from insanity, but I like it. I like how you make me feel."

"Valentine—"

She looked up at him, her eyes wide and her cheeks wet from the tears she'd shed. Valentine released her hands and cupped her face, a smile gracing his lips. He caressed his thumb over her cheek, wiping away the beads of water that had freshly left her eyes, having refused to cling to her lashes when she blinked. "I didn't mean to make you cry. I never want to make you cry. Because the truth of the matter is that I love you."

There! It was out! He loved her. He was in love with her.

"So…what do you have to say to that?" he asked her tentatively.

She turned her face into his hand and kissed his palm, whispering into his skin almost as if she were branding him, "I love you, too."


	19. Chapter Eighteen

**A/N: GAH! Already at chapter eighteen and I am making absolutely no progress with the plot. (Well, LITTLE progress. I can't be hating myself too much now, can I?) I'm so, so, so, so, SO sorry that the story is moving along so slowly and that you've had to put up with me this far. But, hey, if you've done so till chapter eighteen, why not do it a little longer, eh? I see this story ending in thirty chapters at the very most. Only another twelve to go.**

**Alright then, since I made Valentine so...un-Valentine in the last chapter, I hope this one makes up for it and I hope that you hate him just a little bit. Or a lot. I don't really care. I just want you to hate him. That'll let me know that I'm doing this right. And, as usual, R&R.**

* * *

"You'll have to go soon, you know," said a voice so thick with sleep, Valentine chose to ignore it, counting on her to curl up under the covers once more. Unfortunately, that wasn't what she did. Instead, she started shaking his shoulder, and when that didn't work, she began to poke his side. "I'm not joking. You have to leave."

He groaned and snatched his arm out from underneath her head. Outside, autumn was undergoing its transition into winter and though the windows were tightly shut and he had a crisp white quilt thrown over him, Valentine could feel the cold nipping at his bare feet and cheeks. Winter was always extreme in Idris, and more so in Alicante. There was no doubt in his mind that when he left the bed and ventured to his own room, he would regret not wearing thicker clothing. He was already beginning to regret it now and thought longingly of a steaming hot shower he could enjoy within the confines of the four walls of his bathroom, but found himself reluctant to leave.

It wouldn't be an everyday thing, he knew, lying next to her as he was now, and he was hesitant to face his life outside of Madi's dorm where he had a million and one things to do. "Five more minutes," he whispered into her ear when he'd turned onto his side and flung his left arm over her waist. "Five more minutes and I swear I'll leave."

She sighed contentedly, pressing her back against his chest, savouring his warmth. A comfortable silence descended upon them and Valentine was a second away from falling into a deep sleep, where nothing short of a hurricane could rouse him, when Rose shifted, turning around to face him. He could feel her eyes on him and kept his own closed. It may have been past five minutes, but she probably didn't know that. If he just lied really still and kept his breathing even, she might not tell him to leave.

Her fingers were cold when she touched them to his cheek, and a trail of ice tingled down his spine, making him shiver. "Are you asleep?" she asked softly.

Valentine cracked one eye open, but only a little bit, and as a result, it looked more like a slit than an eye. He could see her cheek, but that was all. "I was," he told her in reply, "but then you woke me up." He almost winced when he heard the tone he'd adopted. He thought that he sounded a little too severe for a man who was laying in bed with the woman he'd professed his love to not three hours ago, and was made to believe that fact even more when Rose's breathing became ragged, shaky.

Eyes opened now, he pulled her in, bringing her closer to him, his arms a protective wreathe around her. Rose's hands had come up to his shoulders, latching onto them, onto _him_ as if he was a rope that kept her from falling. He thought up a thousand words to say to her and a thousand variations of sentences, but concluded that it was nigh impossible to decide upon one. So he came up with a different strategy—say nothing until her tears had ceased. Except, he couldn't quite refrain from wondering whether or not that was the wisest course of action. Didn't women like it when they were fussed over? Perhaps he should ask after her wellbeing and what was troubling her.

"Francois," she said to him before a single syllable could leave his lips. "I dreamt of him. God, I've been so stupid, coming here with you and not thinking about everything else. Valentine, how worried he must be right now. I'm a horrible person. I didn't stop to think about him. Not once."

Francois? Had she mentioned that name to him before? He was certain that she hadn't, and his memory had never failed him before. "Who is he?" A boyfriend back in Paris, maybe?

"He helped me, kept me safe when I ran away to Paris from my aunt and uncle."

As her boyfriend, his mind probably should've been buzzing with thoughts of distress over her emotional turmoil, conjuring insane plans to get her back to Paris to see this Francois character, but that wasn't what lurched forward in his mind. When his insides heaved with nerves, it wasn't over Rose's sadness. It was caused by the realization of a deadly mistake on his part when he brought her here.

He'd taken on the role of her cousin, perjured himself when he had that vampire girl compel the nurse into signing Rose over to him, and he thought that after all that, he would be fine, free of the danger that a problem should arise. After all, that hapless nurse wouldn't remember anything that's happened. All she would remember was that she'd signed her patient over to a man that looked nothing like him, a man who had presented her with all the necessary documents to escort Rose out of the hospital.

I am such an idiot, he thought. _Of course_ there would've been someone to help her while she was there. She couldn't have lived on the streets. Someone had put a roof over her head, given her food to eat and clothes to wear, and obviously, that someone was Francois.

Francois, who would have panicked the moment he stepped into the hospital and was informed that the girl he'd taken care of had been released to someone else. Francois, who would have lost sight of all rational thought and reported her disappearance to the police. Francois, who would be the reason that Valentine will find himself in a titanic amount of trouble.

Rose had been with him, in a country that was non-existent on any world map, for over a month. Even if Francois hadn't reported her disappearance immediately, he would have by now, and for the first time in a very long time, Valentine Morgenstern found himself relying on faith and hope that would, most likely, prove to be false.

He hoped that the Clave hadn't given a second thought to the disappearance of a mundane girl. He hoped that no one in the Academy had caught wind of the news and recognized Rose as the missing girl. And he hoped that Rose knew where Francois was.

Valentine thrust his hand into her hair and cupped her neck, burying his face into the spot where her shoulder and neck joined. When he spoke, his hot breath against her skin made Rose pull herself tighter against his person. "You miss him, your friend." He spoke the words as a statement rather than a question posed. "I understand that you want to see him." She pulled away from him and looked at him, her eyes sparkling even though her cheeks were streaked with tears, acknowledging that she had the biggest chance to see Francois again through the man currently lying before her.

A smirk threatened to creep onto his lips, which caused Valentine to quickly pick himself up into a sitting position. He had his back to her for a while as he waited for the urge to smile to pass. When he was sure that he had complete control over himself, he composed his face into a mask of sympathy and returned to her side, resting his back against the bed's headboard. "I understand that you want to see him," he repeated, "but I worry for you, Rose. Paris is too dangerous for you right now."

"No, but, Valentine—"

The Nephilim bit his lower lip, more to stop himself from smiling than nerves overwhelming him, but the latter was probably what it looked like to her. And now, it was time to go in for the kill. "I love you, but I can't let you go. For all I know, whoever it is that's after you is waiting for you. If a horde of demons were able to attack the Academy, who's to say that they won't kill you the minute you set foot into Paris?" As an afterthought, Valentine tacked on a sigh, hoping that it'll convince her more. "I'm sorry, but I won't let you go. Not unless I know that it's safe."

She was starting to chew on her lower lip, a tell tale sign of indecision on her part. He knew exactly the war raging within her right now. She believed that he knew more about safety than anyone else and that she should listen to him, but on the other hand, she truly did want to see Francois. Her mind was spinning, formulating ideas of a compromise and, if he was lucky, she would think exactly what he wanted her to think. "If you knew for certain that all would be well, would you let me go?"

He nodded slowly, carefully, as if he were walking on eggshells just by doing so. "Then you can send someone to act as a scout beforehand."

Valentine clicked his tongue and shook his head. "No, no. Firstly, it is difficult for me to entrust your safety to someone else, especially when I know that someone in Paris is out to get you. Secondly, I will not endanger someone else's life. So, the way I see it, your Francois will have to wait. Unless…"

Rose got up to her knees much faster than he would've thought possible for a mundane. "Unless what?"

"Do you promise to agree with whatever I suggest, no matter how stupidly reckless it may be?" he asked her, taking her hand in his. She nodded vigorously. He sucked in a deep breath, rather like he would were he nervous and unsure. "Give me the address of Francois' home and I will go to Paris myself and map out the safest route." The beginnings of a protest flooded out of her mouth, but he placed a hand on her cheek, effectively ending her head shaking, and spoke over her own voice, "Rose, you promised to agree to whatever it is that I suggest." When she'd quieted down, he looked her dead in the eye and said, "You promised."

There was a silence between them that threatened to shatter her if he spoke another word, so he halted his words, halted his thoughts, afraid of breaking that silence and finally, after what seemed like eons, she cast her eyes downward and nodded her consent.

* * *

By the time he'd kissed her and left Madi's dorm, it was fifteen minutes past three in the afternoon and classes had ended over half an hour ago. The corridors he walked en route to his own dorm room were deserted and when he pushed his door open, not a soul was in sight. He changed out of his school clothes into a pair of black trousers and pale blue button down shirt. Over the shirt, he pulled on a thin cashmere sweater of a darker shade of blue and shrugged on his camel-colored coat, letting himself out of his dorm and, ultimately, out of the school.

Finding a Portal was easier than anyone could have anticipated. The very safe house he'd used to hold Circle meetings hid a Portal in one of its rooms and he found it quickly enough. But those were the events that had transpired almost an hour ago. Now, he was on the streets of Paris, smiling to himself, having realised that the pants he wore now were the exact same ones he'd had on the last time he was in Paris, when he had pinned Rose against a wall and had his way with her. In his hand were the words and numbers that would lead him to Francois, written in curvy, distinctly feminine penmanship.

Paris in the late autumn was not quite as cold as Alicante, so as soon as he landed behind a rather large SUV in Champs-Elysee, the most expensive street in Paris, he unbuttoned his coat and continued on his way to the address Rose had provided him with. He recalled how he'd seen people rushing about the streets so many times before and compared them now to the people he saw walking the Avenue des Champs-Elysee, the perfect coiffeurs of the ladies still in place and the self-indulgent smiles they allowed themselves. A woman in her mid-twenties, far older than his seventeen years, shot him a flirtatious smile as he passed by her and he gave her a small nod, a smaller smile dancing on his lips. He'd noticed the princess-cut canary yellow diamond ring she had on her right ring finger, a plain band of white gold holding it in place. It was a pretty piece. He would have to remember to stop by again later, once his business was finished, to find something prettier for Rose.

Valentine unfolded the piece of paper in his hands and scanned the words once more: _rue du Cardinal Lemoine, 75005 Paris_. There was no house number, no apartment building number either, which told him that he was looking for a single house. The rue du Cardinal Lemoine, he knew, was in the very heart of the Paris Latin Quartier, just behind the Pantheon and next to Place de la Contrascarpe and rue Mouffetard. From where he was, he could probably walk to the Luxembourg Gardens, which, truly, is only a short walk from where he was really headed.

And so, having mapped out a route, Valentine heeded not the people around him. He was here to find Francois and get all this over with. He didn't really have a plan beyond finding the man, but he was sure that along his way, he would think of something. The very first thing—and the most important one—that Valentine needed the Frenchman to do was to cancel out his report of Rose's disappearance. He had to make sure that that would be done. That police report was the one thing that could ruin all chances of him walking out of this mess unscathed. He knew there would be dire consequences waiting were the Clave to find out.

Having sufficiently frustrated himself, Valentine raked his hand through his hair, waging a war against himself to keep from screaming in anger. If only he'd been more careful. If only he'd thought things through—_really_ thought things through—instead of listening to that god damned organ people called a heart and putting himself through all that trouble to get her out of the hospital. He thrust his hands into his pocket savagely, telling himself that he had to be the world's prize idiot.

He balled his hands into fists and, in the process of that, crumpled something which felt strongly of paper in his left palm.

_54, Block B, Honore Apartments, Rue Le Regrattier, 75004 Paris, France._

Those were the words he saw upon taking the paper out of his pocket and smoothing it out. And just like that, he felt as if a load, whose weight equaled that of the whole world's, was placed upon his shoulder. He'd expected to be doing work for three hours at the very longest, but now it seemed like he would have to work for far longer than that. He could always just procrastinate, leave that particular task for the next time he was in town, but he didn't want that. He was already here, and he may as well get everything over with.

As he walked, Valentine tried and successfully pulled up the image of the Parisian map from where it had been lodged in his brain. Once he was done at the Latin Quartier, all he had to do was take a taxi to Notre Dame and then from there, he could use a rune for finding ones way.

An amount of time passed—he wasn't sure how long and there was no way of finding out seeing as how he'd left his watch back at the Academy—and he found himself standing on steps that led to a white door. There was a mailbox on the wall to his right and he took a peek at it, reading the name Francois A. Déon. "This must be the place," he said to himself.

Before he knew what he was doing, Valentine pressed on the doorbell, hearing it's resounding, shrill ring from the inside. Within the next thirty seconds, the door opened and in the doorway was a man of his thirties with neatly-trimmed brown hair. "Can I 'elp you?" he said, and Valentine smiled. The man was French alright.

"_Monsieur Déon_, I don't suppose you know a young woman by the name of Rose?" His voice was courteous, but behind it was a growing impatience. The Frenchman had an air of uncertainty about him—uncertainty over him, he reckoned—but when he mentioned Rose, Francois' face took on a whole different look and he couldn't invite Valentine in sooner.

Valentine was barely seated when the older man started questioning him. "You 'ave 'eard from Rose? You 'ave seen her? 'Ow is she? Is she alright?" And then, seeming to have come out of some sort of trance, he sat down opposite the Shadowhunter, eyes narrowing. "'Oo are you?"

There was a fair bit of throat clearing on Valentine's part, acting the part of a nervous lover. "I am her boyfriend." At the supercilious look the Frenchman was giving him, Valentine added on, "I've been taking care of her for the past month or so. I mean to say that she's been with me."

"Rose 'as never mentioned a boyfriend before. You are not the reason she 'as disappeared, are you?"

"No. No. God, no. She—"

"'Ow old are you…?"

The way his sentence trailed off gave Valentine the impression that he was asking something. It took him a moment to realise that Francois wanted his name. "Valentine," he said quickly. "My name is Valentine and I'm nineteen." He saw that the man opposite him was about to say something else, and cut him off. "Sir, I'm not here to discuss me. Or, rather I am." He shook his head as if to clear a fog about himself. "I suppose that I am the cause of Rose running away."

There was barely registered shock on the face of Francois when he heard the phrase 'running away'. "I live in Switzerland. I'm a student there and one morning, she simply appeared at my front door, telling me that she wanted to be with me. I know how crazy this might sound, but I love her. I truly do love her, and we've been living under the same roof, living together now for over a month. She doesn't want to come back. In fact, we want to get married."

The speed with which Francois A. Déon stood up was a clear testament to his anger. "I will deal with you later. Right now, I must make a call to the police station. They've been going through all the trouble of a kidnapping investigation for nothing."

Valentine watched with intent eyes as the other man walked to the telephone and dialed a number. He put the phone to his ear, and there was only a brief moment of silence in the house before Francois swiveled around angrily and said quite pointedly, "You realise that she is only sixteen, right?"

"Lutzern allows its women to wed by that age, Sir," he said and sent up a silent thank you for the convenient location of Idris, right between Switzerland—which was where the town of Lutzern was—and France.

Francois' anger was unconcealed and Valentine almost laughed at it. Half of him didn't actually believe that the man had fallen for it. "You…yes? 'Ello? I need to speak to Inspector Jacques. Yes, I'll hold." A few seconds later and the other man was speaking in rapid-fire French, and Valentine simply allowed himself to tune out after he heard Francois tell the Inspector to put a halt to the investigation. In his own words, "Rose isn't missing after all. She's just stupid."

Soon, the phone call was over and Valentine was out of the proverbial line of fire. There was only one thing to do now.

Francois still had his back towards him and, not wanting to lose such an opportune moment, Valentine got out of his seat and strode purposefully across the room to the Frenchman. It took him mere seconds to subdue the older man. Having assured himself of the thickness of the Persian carpet underneath their feet, he had no qualms, no hesitations over swinging his leg under that of Francois'. He fell to his knees, groaning when Valentine forced him all the way down to the floor. Gripping a handful of his hair, the young Nephilim man forced the other's face into the carpet. The thickness of the material muffled his screams and he made to get away, to release himself, but Valentine's hold on him was strong and no matter how hard he struggled, he could not move.

And then he stopped moving. The Shadowhunter relinquished his hold on the mundane man and flipped him over, checking for a pulse. Francois was still breathing, albeit lightly. Valentine grabbed him under both arms and dragged him up the stairs. His plan had been to bring him into his bedroom, but on his way there, he passed by a different door. Someone had painted a Rose onto it and, more out of curiosity, Valentine pulled on his gloves and turning the doorknob, pushed the door open. The first thing he saw was a decidedly feminine-looking bed and the second thing he saw, the one that made his smile grow, was a picture of a young girl and Francois on the bedside table.

He would recognize her hair and eyes anywhere, he reminded himself, and dragged the deadweight that was Francois into Rose's bedroom. It took longer than he would've liked—and a lot of muscle exertion—but he had finally been able to wrap the sheets off Rose's bed around Francois' neck and loop the rest of it over a wooden beam in the room. Valentine suspected that that wooden beam was there to give the room a more rustic feel. He chuckled at the irony of it, how Francois had put that wooden beam there to make Rose happy and now it was going to be the very thing that would aid in his death.

On the floor, Francois began to stir, and it was made evident by the fact that he was groaning. Like a little boy, Valentine hopped off the chair he'd been standing on, a length of the sheet in his hand. "Hello, Francois," he said cheerfully. "I hope you know that I truly do love Rose. She means the world to me and this does nothing to lessen my love for her. So don't you worry yourself. She will be in good hands, I promise you."

Valentine tugged at the sheet, forcing Francois to kneel on his knees lest he suffocate. By now, the Frenchman's eyes were open and they stared him down, no doubt trying to pierce through his heart like a lance. The young man only laughed and tugged on the sheet harder. This time, Francois had to stand. And then Valentine tugged and tugged some more until the older man was standing upon the chair.

This was when Francois felt around the back of his neck for a knot to untie, and began to panic when he couldn't feel any bump. "No, you're right. You won't find any knots back there," Valentine said. The pleading look that had taken reign in Francois' eyes almost made the young Nephilim double over in laughter and when the older man began to speak words of mercy, begging him to spare his life, Valentine flashed him his brightest smile and wrapped both hands on the sheet, and pulled with all his might. Francois had no other choice but to stand on his tiptoes and Valentine chose that moment to kick the chair from underneath the Frenchman's feet.

Francois kicked his feet this and that-a-way, but Valentine simply stood there, watching him breathe his last breath. When the struggles had stopped and Rose's guardian was obviously dead, he righted the chair and placed it next to the hanging body. He reached up to loop the rest of the sheets over the length of the wooden beam beside Francois and tied it securely. He then placed the chair in its previous, tumbled position and walked out of the room.

Instead of waltzing out the front door, Valentine climbed down the fire escape from Francois' bedroom and disappeared into the back alleys of Paris. He dug around in his pocket for the other address and read the words once more, then broke into a run towards the street furthest away from rue du Cardinal Lemoine.


	20. Chapter Nineteen

**A/N: What do you think? I make a pretty good villain, yes? And, despite the fact that I'm a girl, I think I make a perfectly fine desperate and rich guy. You'll understand what I mean once you finish reading this chapter. :) So, I had a lot of fun writing this, and considering the kinda' heinous stuff that Val does in here, I don't know what that means for me personality-wise. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it. And, as per usual, please leave me your beautiful reviews.**

**PS: It's my Mum's birthday today so...HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MAMA! :DD**

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He'd left rue du Cardinal Lemoine two and half hours ago, and yet he struggled to remember anything he's encountered since. Everything passed by him in a blur, from the run to the taxi ride, and the faces he saw mashed with one another, rendering it impossible for him to identify a single face from the crowd. And now, sitting on the steps of an old red brick bridge, a cup of coffee in hand, Valentine tried his hardest to tune out everything around him—the inquisitive looks people gave him as they passed by, wondering after his sanity, and sometimes, the accusatory looks they had displayed on their faces, already labeling him as a delusional homeless man, albeit a well-dressed one.

His target's name was Pierre Andre, and he was a forty-two year old bachelor—pathetically so—and he lived alone. He owned no pets, had no friends and, as far as Valentine could tell, his neighbours hated him. In fact, when he'd stood outside Pierre's door, one of his neighbours looked him up and down, like he was an escaped specimen of government experimentation, and asked him how he could ever have been friends with Pierre.

The young man had politely bowed his head and mumbled something or another about how Pierre wasn't such a terrible person, then enquired after Pierre's whereabouts, and the neighbour in question scoffed, "Well damn if I know. The man's nothing but trouble. You should stay away from him, kid."

Valentine smiled, nodded once in Pierre's neighbour's direction, and made for the elevator. There was a decisive thud of a door closing and the Shadowhunter quickly bounded back to the window he'd entered from and climbed down the fire escape. Upon further inspection, he discovered that the apartment building had no other entry or exit point save for its front door.

Once that was done, he retired to the old bridge's steps, where he was now sipping his coffee, keeping a close eye on the door only a block away.

And that was when he spotted a man heading for the apartment building's front door, dressed inconspicuously in black—except, that was what had caught Valentine's attention in the first place—from his long coat to his pants and shoes, all the way up to the black bowler hat that shielded half of his face from view.

Though there was more than a half cup's worth of coffee in the Styrofoam cup he held, Valentine got up from his seated position on the steps, dumping the contents of the cup—and the cup as well—into a rubbish bin conveniently situated nearby, and then broke out into a jog for the door he'd been watching earlier. The man was still several metres behind him when he got to the door and that provided him with just enough time to trace a rune on the door. He'd spent the last half an hour or so going through the runes he'd learned in his lessons, trying to decide upon the best one to use. And he had it now.

Stele in hand, he brought himself close to the green-painted door and scribbled a nondescript looking S on the doorknob, and then added a backward slash to it. He could almost hear the mechanics in the doorknob working and within a heartbeat, a clicking of the lock was heard, and he twisted it, pushing the door open, striding nonchalantly towards the only elevator, as if he hadn't just broken into the place.

He pressed on the button with an arrowhead pointing upwards, indicating that it would take him up, and simply stood there. Pierre should be at the door now and at any moment, he would walk through it to stand next to Valentine. The elevator showed no signs of having already reached the ground floor and he instantly knew that he would have to be in the same, small space with the man he intended to kill. That sort of situation had never happened to him before and as he stood there, waiting for Pierre to come, he was suddenly aware of the tenseness in his calf, and recalled how it had burned at the exertion caused by climbing up sixteen storey's worth of brick and cement.

Valentine leaned back slightly to look out the glass panels of the door, to look outside at the rows of mailboxes. He saw the man in the all black clothing standing in front of a mailbox, his hand in it, and he saw that it was numbered fifty-four—the number of Pierre's apartment.

He sighed heavily, and then, despite the heat in the lobby, shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat. He turned back to the closed elevator doors and waited.

_Ding._

That was the sound that alerted him to the elevator's arrival and once the doors opened, he stepped in. It was a shabby thing, but then again, the building he was currently in wasn't exactly the Ritz-Carlton. The buttons on the panel on the right of the elevator were worn from friction caused by the many times they had been pressed and the numbers on the buttons past the tenth were faded, so much so that he had to count his way up to the sixteenth button. The elevator doors were just about to close when a hand came in between them. They immediately opened to admit a man, and Valentine stole a quick glance at him. Half of his face was still covered by the hat, so if he was anyone that he knew, he couldn't make it out just yet.

But if I knew him, I would make his death even more painful, Valentine thought.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably and leaned back against the elevator's wall, with its peeled wallpaper covering, careful to keep his face hidden in the shadows. He also kept his mouth tightly shut, acknowledging the possible fact that no one spoke to Pierre Andre unless it was absolutely necessary.

The elevator ride was quiet, awkwardly so, and Valentine found that he couldn't wait until he reached the sixteenth floor. Finally, the elevator slowed, and then stopped, and the doors opened to reveal an even rattier looking corridor. Out of the decency he'd had forced upon him as a child, Valentine held his hand out in a sweeping motion, gesturing to the door. His head was still partially bowed, but something about him piqued the interest of the target and within seconds, he hissed the word, "Nephilim."

And then he made a mad dash for his apartment.

Although his mind had raised questions, about how Pierre had recognised him as Nephilim—he'd made sure every inch of his skin that had some type of rune on it was covered!—he couldn't allow himself to be hindered by them. If he lost his target now, there was no telling when he would get an opportunity like this again—if ever! So a heart's beat after Pierre ran away, Valentine took off after him.

His long coat flapping behind him was the last thing he saw of Pierre before he slid into the apartment and Valentine was further encouraged to add to the speed that was already causing him to fly down the corridor. When he was close enough, he threw all his weight forward and lunged towards the wooden door, slightly ajar, and as he regained his footing, the vibration the door made when it slammed into the wall behind it was more evident to the Shadowhunter than the loud _bang!_ it produced, though it assaulted his finely tuned hearing with a vengeance.

The force with which the door had been thrown open was so strong that it sent Pierre flying halfway across his living room, landing sprawled inelegantly on the ground. However, he got up faster than what was possible for any mundane, even a highly trained one, and he was standing with his back pressed against the wall on the other side of the room within less than a minute. He withdrew something from inside his pocket and threw it in Valentine's direction. For his part, Valentine was only just able to avoid the flying object, and it grazed his arm as it flew past, scratching his skin deep enough to draw the smallest amount of blood.

The object landed on the floor, not a sound made, putting Valentine under the impression that it was made of something light. Something like plastic.

His eyes shot to the object lying on the floor for the briefest moment, identifying it as a penknife, and then his head snapped back to Pierre. His stomach was twisting into knots and it felt like it was lurching dangerously within him. Something about the apartment was making him want to fall to the ground and die.

Then, something hit him squarely in the chest, and he looked around him to see what it was. There was nothing but thin air. And then it happened again, like he'd hit a brick wall. His heart began palpitating, faster and faster, and it got to a point where he could hear the infernal organ thundering in his ears and feel it beating against his chest. In a moment of pure pain, when nothing seemed to be greater than the brand of torture he now felt within him, Valentine fell to his knees onto the floor. He clutched his shirt, pressing his hand as hard as he could against his chest while placing the other on the floor to hold himself up.

"Stop," he managed to croak. "Stop."

He was no fool, after all. He knew that the frantic beating of his heart was not the product of imagination. It was really happening, and if it continued, his heart would become exhausted and he could have a heart attack right then and there, clean bills of health be damned. He tilted his head up to look at Pierre. "Stop," he whispered, realizing, for the first time, that the Frenchman was speaking soundlessly.

The Shadowhunter, fuelled by the growing pain inside his chest, put his head down to the floor, looking as if he were prostrating. He wanted to scream—God, how he wanted to. But, he knew that the outcome wouldn't be good. One scream from him and Pierre's neighbours would come rushing out, and no mundane could ever hope to understand what was going on between him and the very obviously atypical human before him.

I have to distract him, he thought. He felt around his waist for his seraph blade, and then was tempted to throw himself out the window when he remembered that he'd forgotten to bring it along with him. "Of all the God damned times to forget," his voice piped up in his head.

And so, desperate and in a gargantuan amount of pain, Valentine balled his hand into a fist and punched the floor beside him as hard as he could. The result was a hole the size of his fist in the cement floor, and he heard Pierre yelp. All the pain stopped thereafter, and though his body was still trying to recover from the ordeal it'd just been put through, he got up to his feet quickly, charging at his target. He had Pierre by the collar in no time at all and shoved him against the wall, then shoved him into it again for good measure.

"You shouldn't have done that, Mr Andre," he said through clenched teeth.

The man had possessed the audacity to attack him openly, and the only thing racing through Valentine's mind now was how blatantly stupid his target had been to challenge him as such. When Pierre's lips began to move again, mouthing words that he couldn't even begin to decipher, the young man stepped back a little bit and grabbed the Frenchman by the back of his head, pulling it down harshly, viciously, just as he raised his leg, smashing the man's forehead into his knee.

He then pushed Pierre against the wall once more and he held him there, doing nothing, long enough for the dazed look to leave the other man's face before punching him in the face. He'd rarely ever felt this angry before and that translated into the force with which he connected his fist to Pierre's jaw. There was a crunching sound, and he knew that he'd done substantial damage to the Frenchman. Still wholly unsatisfied, Valentine held him by the collar as he'd had earlier, supporting the man's weight with only his left arm, and repeatedly punched him until blood started trickling out of his nose, until it ran down to his lips and chin, until he heard the telltale sound of Pierre's nose breaking.

Pierre held his hand against Valentine's chest, and his nails began to dig into the Shadowhunter's clothing, hoping to break skin. However, no matter how hard he tried, Pierre was no fighter and next to Valentine, who'd spent the last ten years honing the skills he would need as a warrior, he stood no chance. Valentine threw him onto the floor with as much ease as he used to play the violin. He allowed Pierre the chance to crawl onto his knees, but that was all he gave him. He strode over to the man and kicked him squarely in the chest, as hard a kick as he could muster, ending with Pierre falling to the area beside him on his back.

To walk over to Pierre took no less than a second, and when he was close, Valentine brought his foot down onto the Frenchman's abdomen hard enough to cause internal injury—and he hoped that he _didn't_, because if he did and his target died because of it, he would hate himself. It wasn't the way he'd planned things and it certainly wasn't the way he wanted him to die.

Valentine crouched next to his target and punched him one last time, his fist connecting with the bridge of Pierre's nose, effectively knocking the man unconscious.

After a few minutes of rest, he retrieved his stele from its strap around his waist and scribbled a rune onto himself, and onto Pierre, a glamour. This way, no one would see them and he wouldn't arouse suspicion when he half-carried, half-dragged Pierre's body with him.

And that was exactly what he did, all the way to the Notre Dame cathedral. He had vivid memories of being in the cathedral as a child and one of a small, empty chapel close by, with its desolate location, stood out especially. Finding the chapel and getting into it posed no trouble at all, as it had been abandoned years ago. Tendrils of wild ivy scaled the walls of the structure and the dried leaves scattered around its grounds only served to add to the building's untouched-for-years façade. The door was unlocked so he swung it open and stepped in without a second's hesitation.

The inside of the chapel matched perfectly with the outside. It was abandoned and was devoid of anything one would normally see in a chapel—including a crucifix, and thus, he felt no guilt, no remorse, over what he was going to do to Pierre when he finally woke up. As he waited though, after having dumped the Frenchman onto the solid, cold, stone floor, he explored the little structure.

He was glad that he did.

Conveniently, the chapels former caretakers—it had to have been them because, honestly, who else could it be?—had left behind several plastic chairs, a first aid kit and chains. He suspected that the chains had been intended to be wrapped around the chapel doors' handles, stopping anyone from getting in, but it would work as a binding tool for Pierre just fine. He then lugged everything he found in the backroom to where he'd left the Frenchman, unconscious, and made swift work of tying him to the chair. Then, just for dramatic effect, he positioned Pierre directly in line of sight of the pew, placed his own chair onto it and took a seat.

With perfect timing, as if the cosmos, too, wanted Valentine to beat the life out of the man, Pierre Andre, he woke up a minute after Valentine was seated. At first, he appeared to have no memory whatsoever of what had happened, and then his eyes cleared and he saw the young man before him, smiling, and he started wriggling. "Now that I think of it, I should have given you a fighting chance, loosened the chains a little bit and let you escape as far as the door. And then, once your hopes had been raised, I would come by and drag you, kicking and screaming, back to where we are now." The pleasant smile Valentine had on never left his face and he got up, pacing back and forth in front of the Frenchman, his face crusty with dried blood. "Does that make me a sadist, you think?"

He stopped pacing, however, when he heard the man speak. "What kind of a Nephilim are you?" he said, voice shaky, unconfident. And Valentine liked it that way. "You claim to be the descendant of Raziel, an angel, yet you would not allow me mercy?"

Valentine almost laughed aloud. Instead, he swiveled on his heel and strode purposefully to stand before Pierre, who was now as pale as a ghost, bent forward and looked him dead in the eye as he said, "I'm the kind who is a Shadowhunter. And I am precisely the Nephilim you shouldn't have crossed." He kept his voice pleasant enough, but behind it, barely hidden and certainly glaringly obvious to Pierre, was an anger that would cost him his life. He then retracted his form, standing proudly at his full height of six feet and three inches. Unnecessarily, he cleared his throat. "Tell me, Mr Andre, have you ever heard of a young woman called Rose Wyatt?" Oh, yes, Rose had told him everything about her, the guilt over lying to him about who she was overwhelming her. "She's a remarkable enough character. Gentle, patient, loving with brown hair and striking violet eyes. Beautiful. Ever heard of such a person, Mr Andre?"

The Frenchman was quiet, but he stared at Valentine with the type of hatred he rarely ever saw, and he chuckled. "You know, Mr Andre, I happen to be very much smitten with Miss Wyatt. I would hate to think that she should get hurt. And this is a fact that you should learn, Mr Andre—I would die a thousand deaths before I allowed myself to stop protecting her."

"You will never have her!" Pierre suddenly lashed out. "My Master will get her back. She belongs to my Master. She is _his_."

And that did it for Valentine. He stopped his pacing, stopped the pleasantries and his smile disappeared. He wrapped his fingers around the other man's neck, cutting of his air supply as he beat his fist into his face. Only when fresh blood began to run over the mask of dried blood upon Pierre's face did he stop. The Frenchman spluttered a tad, gulping down great amounts of air, and then began to laugh. He knew that he'd struck a nerve with the Shadowhunter.

As he laughed, however, he never looked Valentine in the eye and the young man saw that as cowardice. And when he spoke, still his eyes would not rest upon his captor. "You think you're so strong, you Shadowhunter. You think you can protect her. But my Master knows of you and he knows of her, and you won't save her. You _can't _save her. My Master takes what is his, and Rose—_your_ Rose, was it?" He broke off to laugh some more, and it was a cruel sound that made Valentine want to snap his neck in two. "It's cute how you are so adamant to believe that she's yours, but she's not. She belongs to my Master and my Master will have her."

Valentine raised his hand again, ready to strike the insolent little coward, and the person in question had already turned his face away to shield it, but he breathed an inaudible sigh and lowered his arm. "And who is this Master you speak so fondly of?" Pierre's eyes shot vehemently to him and, though all he wanted to do was beat the man until his skull cracked, the Shadowhunter forced a smile to grace his lips. "Come now, Pierre. We're all friends here. You can tell me."

But, in the moments that followed, there was nothing but resolute silence, and it echoed off the chapel walls. Angel help me, but this man has got a strong will, he thought.

From under his chair, he retrieved the first aid kit. He had his back to Pierre, hiding what he was doing from view, and he could feel the Frenchman's eyes on him, trying—and failing—to figure out what it was he was looking for. He removed the pair of scissors from the kit and turned back around.

"Do you know what this is, Pierre?" he said, still smiling and holding up the scissors. At the befuddled look upon the forty-two year old man's face, Valentine's smile morphed into a smirk. "I should think that I'm a creative person, and I have many ideas. Presently, I have ideas pertaining to these scissors as well as yourself." He pushed his fingers through the holes in the scissors' handles, their lever, and pried the two blades open. And then he held one side of the handle as he would a knife. "They mostly revolve around your future relationship with them and—I shouldn't like to divulge all of my thoughts—but I can tell you that they run skin deep."

He stabbed one of the scissors' blades into Pierre's thigh and heard a scream that made him want to burst into laughter. Had Pierre been a Shadowhunter, this would have done nothing but make him clench his teeth. Nevertheless, he was only human, and it was delightful to listen to his scream after all the taunting he'd done, after he'd challenged him back in the apartment. "I want your Master's name, Pierre, and unlike Rose, I'm not a very patient person." The scissors' blade, which was already embedded deep in the other man's thigh, was dragged down the length of it, until his knee, by the vicious pull of Valentine's hand. There was another ear-splitting scream, and this time, Valentine allowed himself liberty to smile. And it kept growing, his smile, until he was baring his perfectly aligned, pearl-white teeth to the Frenchman, currently in pain and crying.

"I think I hear words beginning to form on your tongue. Are you going to tell me who your Master is?" Tear after tear rolled down Pierre's cheeks, but he was stubborn, and he was loyal. His lips were firmly clamped together. "No?" He pulled the scissors out of Pierre's thigh and, just as before, stabbed it into the upper region of his other thigh, and dragged the blade over the area of human skin and flesh until it was perilously close to the man's crotch. "Still not going to tell me?"

There was more silence.

"I've got to credit you on your undying loyalty to your Master, Pierre." Valentine straightened, leaving the blade inside Pierre, and licked his lips, shoving a hand into his pants' pocket. He felt around his left one first, and nothing came into contact with his hand. He then pulled it out and shoved it into his other pocket where, again, he felt around it. Only this time, something connected with his palm and thumb as well as his index finger. He pulled the item out of his pocket and revealed it to Pierre to be a black sharpie. He placed it in between his two rows of teeth and bit on it to keep it in place, and then yanked the scissors non-too-gently out of Pierre's thigh, which resulted in another scream. Valentine shot him a look, as if to say that the Frenchman was overreacting. And then, he walked over to the stained-glass window and punched through it.

Glass fell onto the floor and the distinctive sound of shattering glass filled up the little chapel. He bent down to pick up a jagged piece of glass, the sharpest he could find, barely registering his bleeding knuckles and walked back to Pierre. He said not a word to the other man, made no sound. He did, however, sit on the floor, folding his legs gracefully, and take Pierre's hand in his own. Then, without warning, he gripped the glass hard in his hand, cutting through his skin, and pushed it into the Frenchman's pinky. There was another scream, and another trailed it soon after when Pierre realised what Valentine intended for him. The tip of the broken piece of window came out through the other side of Pierre's finger and as Valentine sawed through it inelegantly with the scissors, the older man's screams could not be quieted.

Once the finger had been completely detached from the hand, Valentine placed the glass and scissors down onto the floor and arranged them as he would arrange his stationary before an exam. He held the finger up for Pierre to see and took his sharpie from between his teeth so he could speak. "Do you see this finger? It belonged to you, and now it's mine. Doesn't that come across as ironic?" He smiled patronizingly; like he'd seen his teachers do to some students. "Let's view this as a valuable lesson for you. Whatever it is that you think you own can be snatched away by someone else. And the same goes for your Master." He removed his gaze from Pierre then and drew the rune he'd seen on Rose onto it. He held it up again and, due to his seated position on the floor, he seemed like an excited child. "Do you recognise this rune?"

Whereas before, when Valentine had asked question after question regarding his Master, and even with all the stabbing and cutting, he hadn't been able to elicit a response from Pierre, one look at his severed finger and the rune that now graced it made the Frenchman yell and thrash about in his chair in anger. Valentine quickly got to his feet, trying to make sense of the stream of gibberish leaving the other man's mouth. He was speaking so quickly and he could barely make out the French words being spoken by the man. They slurred together in his rage and made for a set of words, sentences that even Valentine, with all his fluency in the language, could not understand. And then, seeming to have calmed down a little, Pierre spit in Valentine's direction and said, seething, "Get that thing out of my face. Get it out of my face! I never want to look at it! Oh, I'm glad we killed him. I'm glad he died. I'm so happy that he's dead." And, as if to prove a point, he started laughing. "He shouldn't have done it. He was an idiot."

"Shouldn't have done what, Pierre? What shouldn't he have done?"

Forgetting all about the silence that had been his usual answer to all of the Nephilim's previous questions, Pierre looked him in the eye good and proper—the first time he's done so—and spat, "Stolen Master Amos's identity."

Valentine held onto that name as if the world would crumble, fall to pieces if he forgot it. "Is that your Master? That is his name? Amos?"

"You don't get to speak his name!" Pierre yelled, his eyes wild. "You don't have the right to. He was better than you. He was better than ten of you! But then you and your kind, you killed him. You made him heartbroken. His hand—his beautiful hand that took his own life—it was forced by you! You do not speak his name."

Probably for the first time in his life, Valentine Morgenstern ignored the insult thrown at him and instead, focused on what the Frenchman had said all the other times. _"My Master will get her back."_ and _"My Master will have her."_ All of his previous outbursts had been centred around his Master getting a hold on Rose.

A _live _Master.

And yet, here he was, raving about another Master, and an obviously dead one at that.

He has a new Master then? Valentine thought. He had to. Else, why would he say that Rose belonged to his Master and that his Master would have her, get her back?

Valentine frowned, looking to Pierre and seeing that he was still going on and on about his Master Amos, lost in his own world. Despite the fact that he'd grown tired of the man trying his patience, he decided to have another go at asking for his Master's name—his _current _Master. "Pierre," he said, but the Frenchman would have none of it. His eyes rolled back and he kept talking about Amos, about how he—whoever _he_ was—was so stupid, so clueless, about how he deserved what he got. "Pierre," he said again, louder this time. Hell, he was practically shouting the name. Nonetheless, Pierre could not hear him, couldn't care less about him calling. Finally he strode up to him and slapped him across the face—_hard_. "Pierre," he said again, firmer, sterner. The older man, his target, looked up at him through glazed-over eyes, and Valentine resisted the urge to scoff in disgust. He was just another one of those mundanes who were in awe of something greater than them, something tangible, rather like those idiots that served the vampires willingly. "Pierre, who is your Master? What is his name? Where can I find him?"

"You cannot protect her," the man said. "She belongs to him and he will have her. He _will_ have her, mark my words. Nothing you do can keep her from him."

And Valentine had had enough. He snatched the scissors from the floor and made several more cuts—both shallow and deep ones—on Pierre's person. Blood spurted from the Frenchman's body and he was glad for the fact that he'd removed his coat and left it hanging by the back of his chair.

When he wasn't screaming, Pierre was chanting old Latin verbs over and over again. But then, as Valentine continued on with his task, he became silent, and that prompted the young man to look up at the face of the man he was killing. His lips were moving in the same pattern repeatedly and it took Valentine some time to make out the word he was saying over and over again: Abaddon, the fallen angel whose name meant 'to destroy'.

The blood spattered onto his cashmere sweater, but he couldn't care about it. He _didn't_ care about it. Pierre's screams were like music to his ears and as he removed chunks of flesh from the other man's body, Valentine thought of nothing. His mind was empty. All that he felt, all that he knew in that moment was the white hot rage that burned inside him. Then he stabbed Pierre with the scissors, and he stabbed him again and again and again. And then Pierre died, and he could feel his last breath leaving him, but Valentine would not stop driving the blade into his chest. Only when the muscles in his arm began to burn from the activity did he drop the scissors, and they landed on the floor with a clang that only metal could make.

He fell onto the floor, lying flat on his back, and looked at his hands. They were covered in blood and the sleeves of his sweater looked the same as well.

All he wanted to do was lay there because, by the Angel, he was tired. But he couldn't do that. Darkness had fallen over the chapel and had it not been for his Nephilim bloodline, with their enhanced senses, he wouldn't have been able to see in the dark of the night. He sat up, pulled his sweater over his head and went to work on collecting the chunks of human meat from the floor, wrapping them up in the expensive gift his aunt had gotten him for Christmas, the cashmere sweater he'd just peeled from his person, careful to leave little pieces of the flesh around Pierre.

As he sliced away at Pierre and removed bits of flesh from him, he'd made sure to do so to make it look like a demon had just feasted upon him. And the fact that he'd done it in an abandoned chapel added to that. The smarter demons were always trying to defy the church, defy the Shadowhunter community and, indeed, the Clave, by doing such things on hallowed ground. And the demon would have been more than able to enter into the chapel because it was abandoned. It was no longer scared ground.

Valentine removed the chains from around Pierre and splayed him on the ground in a manner that made him look like he'd tried to defend himself. He then took away the chairs, the chain and the first aid kit.

When he entered the bathroom and turned the tap head, he was grateful to find that the chapel's water supply hadn't been cut off, and in the dark, he went to work on cleaning the chairs. The chain came next and it proved to be harder to clean on account of the fact that it had been on Pierre's body. He managed to clean it completely of the blood, however, and then went to work on the scissors. Once he was satisfied that they had been returned to the state in which he first found them in, Valentine returned them to where he found them, placing them exactly in the position he'd taken them from.

And then he left the chapel, its door still opened, having buttoned up his coat to hide the blood stains on his light blue dress shirt. He'd contemplated throwing his sweater into a dumpster somewhere, but concluded that that could prove to be too dangerous and so he hid it in his coat, stopping by a thrift store to buy a backpack and stuffed his bloodied sweater—and the flesh wrapped in it—into it.

He didn't know how long he walked. His body was fatigued and he felt a headache coming on. To marry that was a burning in both his arms that had yet to subside. People passed by him. Stores passed by him and cars passed by him, but he disregarded all of them. He just wanted to go home, shower and curl up in his bed. When he became tired of walking, he stopped by the side of a road and hailed a taxi every time one drove past.

Three taxis later, and he was finally inside one, and he'd told the driver to take him to the Champs-Elysee. The taxi driver had smiled jovially at him and said that it was going to be a rather long ride, telling him that he should make himself comfortable, winking suggestively at him. The mundane probably thought that he'd had a long night out with friends. Of course he wouldn't suspect that he'd just come from killing someone.

Valentine leaned back against the cab's soft seats and rested his head on the headrest, closing his eyes. On the radio, Can't Buy Me Love from The Beatles was playing, prompting Valentine to look at the time. It was already a quarter past ten in the evening. By the time he got to the Champs-Elysee, and especially with the traffic jam he was caught in, all the shops would be closed and he wouldn't be able to get Rose a gift. He sighed heavily at the thought of her and turned his head to look out the window. He remembered the first time he'd seen her. They were in that book store, and she'd had such a sadness in her eyes that he couldn't look at her. She'd been afraid back then, thinking that she was alone and that no one could help her. Heck, she thought that she was being possessed by a demon! She would've taken up any possibility, as long as it meant that she hadn't gone crazy.

But they were a long way's away from answers back then. He didn't know why he felt so comforted by that. In fact, when he thought about it, they were no closer to answers now than they had been back then, in the bookstore, when he'd read that book about the human girl and Abaddon.

"Abaddon," he said to himself.

It could have been nothing more than a coincidence, a passing mundane fancy that meant absolutely nothing, but he couldn't take that chance. He had to go back to that bookstore.

Valentine tapped on the Plexiglas window separating him from the driver and provided him with the address of the Institute. The driver looked at him through the rearview mirror and frowned, saying, "The cab fare will be doubled."

"I don't care," was his reply. "Take me there."

En route to the Institute, Valentine could understand perfectly well why the cab fare would be doubled. From where they were, and with the traffic jam that seemed to have seized the city of Paris by storm, it took more than an hour and a half to get to the abandoned-looking structure of the cathedral that housed the Parisian Institute. When the taxi pulled over to the side of the road opposite the Institute, Valentine retrieved from his wallet two fifty Euro bills, telling the driver to keep the change and handed him another fifty Euro bill as a tip before pushing the door open and getting out, breaking into a run. Instead of running for the Institute, however, he navigated the road to get back to the cobbled streets he remembered so well.

He took a quick look at his watch, panicking when he read the time as two minutes to midnight. He urged his legs to move faster and he ran swiftly across the bridge, passing by the row of shops he'd seen on that day, passing by the clothing store with its expensive façade that he'd thought of purchasing a gift for his mother from. The lights were out in all the stores he passed and all the doors had a closed sign on them.

It took him all of eleven minutes to find the bookstore and he almost broke out into a jig when he saw that the shopkeeper—the very same one with the hippie beard and glasses—was just about to close the store.

"Stop! Mister! Sir! Stop!" he cried.

The shopkeeper looked around, expecting to see someone else that the young man currently running towards him was possibly referring to, but there was no one around but him, and so he pointed his index finger up at his face.

Valentine smiled. "Yes, you!" He came to a halt in front of the hippie man, barely panting from the run. "I have to enter your store."

The hippie man quickly adopted an annoyed expression and said, in a refreshing American accent, "We're closed, boy."

And that one word—closed—made Valentine panic again. God, but he was desperate to get in there. "I know, but I really need to go in there. There's a book that I—"

"We're closed," the hippie man huffed, cutting him off, and in a spur of the moment decision, brought on by desperation and a high that originated from the elatedness he'd felt when he saw the shopkeeper standing outside the bookstore's door, Valentine said, just as the hippie man told him again that they were closed, "How much did you make today?"

Hippie man looked taken aback by the question and shook his head, as if the motion would rattle his brain and clear his mind. "I'm sorry. What?" And he put a fair amount of emphasis on the word what.

"How much did you make today?" Valentine repeated.

"I don't see how that is any of your concern. Now, leave before I call the police on you."

"I am willing to pay you a substantial amount of money if you would let me enter the store. In fact, I'll pay you triple of whatever profit you made today. Just let me into your store." Half of him couldn't believe that he'd said that, but the other half was certain that that was the only way to gain access into the store—other than breaking and entering, which was a felony—and he was glad that he did. The hippie man looked at him warily and Valentine threw his hands up in the air, a gesture of impatience, partly shocked that he would do so. "Look at me! This coat is by Armani and my shoes are Italian! Do I really look like a man with no money?"

That seemed to convince hippie man and he unlocked the door to the store, stepping in to turn on the lights and welcome him in. Once inside, Valentine made a beeline for the stack of books arranged in a circular shape, and was crestfallen when he saw that some other bestseller had replaced the book he was looking for. He did his best to hide it from his face however, turning around to address hippie man. "The last time I was here, there was a book that I read. It was about a fallen angel and some human girl."

"What was the book's title."

"I don't know," he replied. "But it was on this table, with the sign 'bestseller'." Hippie man was shaking his head and Valentine rubbed his hands together. "Would it help if I told you that the fallen angel's name was Abaddon?" Somehow, with his knowledge about the name and his knowledge about angels and demons in general, he felt that it was rather ironic for him to say that.

Hippie man snapped his fingers. "That book! I still have it." He walked around Valentine, past the table to a bookshelf. The young man watched in earnest as the shopkeeper ran his fingers through the spines of several books. And then, finally, he stopped at one and pulled it out. "Here we are, Silence of the Angels." He held the book up. "Is this what you're looking for?"

Valentine nodded and moved quickly to where hippie man was. He took the book from hippie man's grasp and flipped to the very last page and saw a picture of a man who was, most probably, in his late fifties and scanned over the words. Apparently, the author's name was Nathaniel Eisenhower, a Dutch citizen who's lived in London, Belfast and New York and was now living a quiet life with his three cats and long-time girlfriend in Amsterdam, Holland.

He looked up at hippie man very suddenly. It was a long shot, but this was a bookstore, after all. "You don't happen to have a phone book for Amsterdam, do you?"

Hippie man's eyes lit up. "I actually don't at this very moment, but I can get one to you, signed, sealed, and delivered, in two days."

"Two days? You can make sure of that?" Hippie man nodded vigorously and Valentine asked for a pen and paper to write his address in. While hippie man went to the counter to get what he'd asked for, Valentine went over the possible places to mail the phone book to. He definitely couldn't have it delivered to the Institute. Madame Lambert would only get her hands on it and start formulating ridiculous ideas as to why he would need it and somehow manage to get him into trouble. No, he definitely couldn't have it delivered there. And he certainly couldn't have it delivered to Morgenstern Manor in Alicante—which left him with one other option.

Hippie man came by then and handed the pen and paper to him. Valentine quickly wrote down an address on the piece of paper and passed it to hippie man, who readily stuck it upon a little spike beside the cash register. He turned back to look at Valentine. "Now, about that money you promised me."

The tone of voice that hippie man had adopted made Valentine's knuckles itch to plant him a facer, which, in turn, reminded him about the cuts on his knuckles from breaking the window back at the chapel, so he forced a smile onto his face and said, "Do you know of an ATM nearby?"

"There aren't any ATM's around here, but I have a car, and I know where the nearest one is. I can take you there," he said.

Hippie man had a barely concealed grin now and motioned for Valentine to follow him, and that was what he did. He entered the car, which, truly, was a tad too small for his six-foot-four frame. As hippie man drove, Valentine looked out the window nonchalantly and asked, "Could you drop me off at the Ritz-Carlton once we're done, Sir?" Hippie man looked to him, smiled widely and said something about being more than happy to do so. And then, casually, the young man asked again, "So how much did you make today, Sir?"

The storekeeper flashed him a toothy smile. "Four hundred and eighty-nine Euros, kiddo."

Valentine smiled, the only way he could suppress the urge to smack the pleased expression off of hippie man's face, and he was sure of two things: one, he'd spent a lot of money today, and two, he was finally going to take Rose on that date Madi had been hinting about and he was going to take her to Amsterdam.


	21. Chapter Twenty

**A/N: I feel like this chapter is...off. I don't know. It's just something I'm feeling about the writing style of this chapter. But, it's late, which leaves me with two options: this chapter's writing style is off and weird or it's late and I'm just tired, so I've got weird feelings. I'm hoping that it's the latter, but if it IS the writing style, you'll tell me, won't you? Anyway, as usual, R&R. :D**

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When he handed the receptionist his credit card to pay for the suite he'd booked for three nights, the thought of actually using his hotel room hadn't once crossed his mind. But, God help him, he felt wretched, and when he saw the inviting, pristine white duvet, he said to himself, "I'll lie down for a minute or two, get some rest before returning to Alicante." He rationalized that he would need all the energy he could possibly muster for when he ventured into the Portal. He knew that he would focus particularly on the Circle's safe house, but Portals were unreliable sometimes and could develop a mind of their own. There was no telling which part of Alicante he could end up deposited in.

So, having satisfied himself with enough logical reasoning, Valentine removed his shoes and pulled his shirt off, slipping under the covers and stretching his person out on the mattress, resting his head on the pillow. It required mere minutes for him to succumb to slumber and following that, the world was dead to Valentine Morgenstern—and he continued sleeping until eight minutes past nine in the morning the _next_ day.

What he should've done when he saw the numbers displayed on the clock's face was leap out of bed and hastily throw on his clothes, knowing only too well that classes had begun a little over two hours ago. But he couldn't bring himself to do so. When he dug his elbows into the mattress and propped himself up, his head felt so heavy and groggy, and his arms felt like they couldn't support the rest of him, he instantly gave up and fell back flat onto the bed. His body was cold, and yet warm at the same time. The covers he had over him made him want to throw them off—he felt like he was a lasagna dish baking in the oven!—but felt like the heavy duvet was completely and utterly inadequate to ward off the onslaught of cold brought on by the air conditioner.

He felt almost guilty at the thought of missing school again. He'd missed school for two whole weeks during his recovery, and on Monday, he'd been excused early from class. He felt like he was one of those underachieving, lazy students his teachers were constantly exasperated over.

But, the Angel help him, he didn't ever want to leave that bed. He felt so miserable, and so ready to die, he contemplated the idea of holding a pillow over his face and suffocating himself.

In the next ten hours, his condition had worsened, and in twenty-nine, he officially diagnosed himself with stomach flu. His headache had long since escalated into a migraine, his temperature had risen considerably, his arms and legs felt like jelly, the urge to throw up never left and, he was now beyond certain that he knew the menstrual pains women were always complaining about, and he could understand why they would do so. He felt like his stomach had been ripped open and his intestines were being viciously yanked out over and over again, and then sliced through with a hot blade. Then, as if all that torture wasn't enough, someone had shoved them back into his abdominal cavity where they took to being alive and refused to stay put, choosing instead to bounce in and around his lower abdominal region.

He was genuinely expecting himself to begin bleeding soon.

Despite the recurring suicidal thoughts, Valentine somehow managed to summon enough willpower to drag himself out of bed and step into the shower. He was sure that he was on fire, and remembered how much better he'd felt after Rose had helped give him a bath the last time he'd had a raging fever, which was the main reason he was now allowing ice cold water to fall upon him, rivulets of water running down his back.

The sheer completion, satisfaction that he felt while in the shower was unexplainable in words and he found himself reluctant to leave the sanctity of the bathroom. Eventually, though, he did and, for a lack of clothing, he shrugged on a white bathrobe, cold to the touch, and climbed back into bed.

That feeling of elation, of rebounding from his fever, didn't last long, however. When he woke back up the next evening, at some time after five, his temperature had returned—although, thankfully, hadn't worsened—and the sheer misery of everything he'd experienced the day before had returned as well. To add to that was the dismal realization that tonight was his last night at the Ritz-Carlton.

I could always add an extra night, he thought, and, truly, he was more than capable of doing so. But, he wanted his own bed and his dormitory. It didn't come close to providing him the comfort that the Ritz-Carlton had afforded him, but he wanted to go home. With that thought in mind, he twisted his upper torso so his chest was facing the mattress, and pressed his hands against it, pushing himself up.

Well, _pushing_ himself up was an exaggeration. He couldn't even get past putting the pressure of all his body onto his hands. He collapsed once more onto the bed, and grudgingly conceded to the thought that he needed help. It took a sizeable amount of effort, and a stream of choice expletives left his lips, but he finally had the phone on his bed and had dialed the number one, phoning the front desk. He was greeted by an annoyingly cheerful sounding female, and, resisting the need to growl at her joyous disposition, Valentine asked her if she could call someone for him.

The Ritz-Carlton had always been synonym with excellent service, and he was glad for it because the woman, when she heard his request, didn't question him, didn't ask why he couldn't call himself, and immediately asked for the number. He gave it to her, the number of a household linked to Morgenstern Manor. As soon as the receptionist asked for Mrs Christine Anna-Marie Morgenstern nee Blevins, there would be a dove sent to his home, addressed to his mother, and when the receptionist told the person on the other side of the line to have Christine Morgenstern pick her son up at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in Paris, another dove would be sent and his mother would be at the hotel in less than an hour.

In the mean time, as he waited for the hour to pass, Valentine asked for someone to be sent up to his room to light a fire in the fireplace. Six minutes later and there was a pleasant-looking Frenchman at his door, a fire poker and some logs at the ready. The fire was lit in a matter of minutes and he murmured a very sickly thank you to the Frenchman, nodding once, an indication that the time was nigh for him to leave. Once he heard the door click, he mustered all the willpower he could possibly have in his sick and frail body at that moment, and though his stomach lurched violently inside him and he became dizzy, light-headed, desperate to vomit, he picked up the backpack he'd purchased on the night he met Pierre, the very one that contained the human flesh—which was producing a vile smell, already beginning to decompose—and his bloody sweater, and threw it into the crackling flame.

He then swiped his clothes off the back of an armchair, where the Frenchman had been nice enough to place them, and put them on. He had tunnel vision twice when he looked down at his legs to ascertain that he was pushing his limbs into the right holes, and he had just enough time to yank his shirt off and grab the rubbish bin from the side of the couch and spew his vomit in it instead of all over the expensive Persian carpet. He coughed and gagged a few times after that, his head still over the rubbish bin, but when he was sure that he wouldn't throw up again, he drank from the complimentary bottle of water placed on the coffee table and pulled his shirt back on, this time managing to pull it all the way past his abdomen, covering him up properly.

Valentine half-crawled, half-walked back to the bed and fell heavily onto it, foregoing the covers and falling straight asleep. He didn't hear the doorbell when his mother rang it repeatedly, and the only reason he woke up was because she was shaking him so violently, all the while saying in a stern tone, "Valentine Morgenstern, you wake up right now. I don't have time for your games. Wake up. Now."

His eyelids weighed a tonne, but hearing his mother's voice, they fluttered open easily and he opened his mouth to call to her, but was cut short when she continued with, "Are you sick? No, that was a stupid question. It's so obvious that you are." She was now taking on the role of a mother fraught with distress, and she placed her palm on his forehead, keeping it there for a long time before retracting it. "Come now, darling, I'll take you home. We'll have someone take a look at you when we get back."

His mother ceased bending over and returned to her full height, her back ramrod straight, motioning with a hand for someone to come in and help him up. He smelt the familiar smell of Morgenstern Manor's library—of parchment and wood stains—and leaned heavily onto the member of the staff now supporting him. The walk to the elevator was excruciatingly long to him, and the ride down was equally as excruciating when he saw a reflection of himself in one of the mirrors. His skin had adopted a pasty, pallid complexion and his eyes looked sunken in, proof of the great amount of weight he'd lost. When he left the elevator and headed for the hotel's main entrance, people stared after him, probably thinking of him as a rich, spoilt heroin addict, being carted off by his embarrassed mother.

The drive to the Portal was even tougher on him as every turn the car made provoked his headache and sent him spiraling into twenty minutes of uncontrollable gag reflexes. Once, he actually _almost_ threw up on his mother. Going through the Portal to get to Alicante damn near killed him, and the carriage ride home convinced him that his active imagination truly wasn't playing a part in the symptoms he suffered, after all. The world really was spinning around him and he had to focus very, _very_ hard just to put one foot in front of the other. Had it not been for the man holding him up, he would've tumbled to the ground and never gotten up.

However, climbing up steps proved to be too hard even for the great Valentine Morgenstern, and they had to get the biggest man in their employment, Ben, to carry him all the way to his room. The healthy Valentine would have cursed himself every which way, but in his current state, even thinking would induce vomiting. He was simply too tired. He'd never felt this weak in his life, and all he wanted to do was fall asleep and never awake again.

Like a child, he was placed onto his bed, and his mother came in seconds later to tuck him in. His room, he recognised, was completely shrouded in darkness, with its curtains pulled and the witchlights brought out, the candles extinguished. The only reason his mother could see him perfectly was due to the dim light that snaked in from the corridor through the wide-open door and her Shadowhunter sense of sight. When she bent down to smooth his hair away from his face and plant a kiss on his forehead, Valentine could see the emerald green dress his mother had on underneath her coat, and noticed for the first time, how her hair had been styled into an elaborate up-do. And then he remembered that his mother was hosting a dinner party, and he'd received a formal letter in school on Monday, telling him to come home on the date that the dinner party was to be held—which was today.

And he remembered how, upon reading the letter, he'd decided to ask Rose to go with him. It was the perfect opportunity to introduce her to his mother.

He groaned. He was thinking too much. But, he couldn't let it go. He had to send a note to Rose and he had to convince his mother to allow him to attend the dinner party. "I forgot about the dinner party tonight," he began. His mother shook her head and waved her hand through the air, a gesture that was meant to tell him to not worry about it. "I want to go, Mother."

Immediately, the nonchalant air that she'd had about her disappeared, as if dispersing into the air. Her answer was a simple and decisive, "No." The beginnings of a protest was about to leave his mouth, and Christine turned her back to him. "No, Valentine. You're sick." And then, as if to make a point, she said again, "You're sick."

"Mother, I am your only son." He stopped talking for a moment, breathing properly to steady the rapid beating of his heart. "This dinner party will be the first event we've held at this house since Father passed on, and people will wonder and question you about my absence. We must put on a strong front, yes?" His head was pounding, but he forced himself to hold his gaze on his mother, trying to discern her rigid posture. "Mother, I have to be there. As his son—his _only_ son, I have to be in attendance."

Christine liked to think that she knew her son better than she knew anyone else, better than anyone else knew him, and she knew for a fact that despite his condition, he wouldn't stop arguing with her until he had gotten what he wanted. There really was no other choice but to say yes to his wish. So that was what she did. She made a show of being hesitant, and then sighed heavily and said, "Alright, you may be present at the dinner party." She grinned then, only just thinking of something that might make attending the dinner party seem daunting to her son. "Everyone has to have a date to the event, and it has to be of the opposite sex. You, Valentine, will not be an exception to the rule. I don't want uneven numbers at my party just because my son doesn't want to spend time with any girl."

Valentine flashed her a grin of his own before replying, "That, I think, won't be a problem, Mother dearest. I know exactly who to bring."

If Christine was shocked at her son's declaration, she was hiding it well. Her face was an unbreakable, impassive mask. And then, just because she was still worried about him and she wanted to make him fuss over something for the duration of the day, she said, "And you have to be in bed by ten."

He should protest. He should really protest, give his mother a hard time, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. His brain was trying to break through his skull. His head was just pounding and pounding and pounding. He nodded his consent, and when his mother started to leave his room, he called after her, asking her to send their fastest rider into his room with a pen and paper. She smiled, nodded, and then said, "The receptionist handed me a package addressed to you when I went to check out just now. It's on your desk."

The words his mother had just spoken made no impression whatsoever on Valentine. He just wanted that rider in his room so he could write a note to Rose, asking her to come over to his house.

Soon, the man he'd asked for knocked on his door and pushed it open. Only when Valentine motioned for him to come closer did he do so. Unable to get up, Valentine told the rider to write down every word he said. The quill poised on the paper, Valentine began to speak. "Dear Rose, I would like the pleasure of your company to a black-tie event being held at my home this evening at eight. And when I say that, I mean that I need you to come, and I hope that you won't refuse me. If you agree to this, please be at the Academy's main archway at seven in the evening. I will send a carriage down to pick you up at that time. All my love, V Morgenstern."

He provided the rider with instructions to find Rose and began to drift off to sleep just as his door started to close, the word 'package' lingering in the back of his mind.

Valentine was standing by the door at eight o'clock in the evening that night, having refused a maid's offer to get him a chair. The pounding in his head had faded to a dull thud that he could ignore were he to put an effort into it, but it had moved to the confinements of his chest, where his heart was now beating wildly. Thoughts were racing through his mind, sending him into a panic when he began to raise questions to himself.

What if she refused? What if she didn't show up and he was left to stand at the door, waiting for her while other guests milled into his home? What if she hated him for disappearing just like that? What if she'd heard something pertaining to Francois? What if that was why she hated him?

He was saved from continuous traitorous, panicked thoughts when he heard the neigh of several horses and the sound of wheels rattling ever closer down the path to the manor. He looked up to see a carriage bearing the Morgenstern emblem moving steadily towards him, and hoped with everything that he was that that carriage contained one Rosalind Wyatt instead of some other guest his mother had sent the footman to fetch.

When the carriage rolled to a stop directly in front of the manor's great oak double doors, he moved from his spot by the door to stand near the stairs. He would be resigned to escorting another guest into the house if the person in the carriage wasn't Rose, and if she did show up, then he would run the risk of not being there to greet her, but that was a chance that he was willing to take. Call it a leap of faith.

The footman hopped down from beside the driver and walked calmly to the door, his hand reaching for it, and all the while, Valentine's heart was beating so hard and so fast, he was certain his rib cage had fractured. The door swung open and the footman removed the steel steps from their position under the door, placing them on the ground and then turned towards Valentine, and said in a formal tone, "Miss Rosalind Sahra Wyatt."

At the sound of her name, he felt his shoulders become less tense, and his fingers softened, a smile etching onto his lips. Completely disregarding the stomach flu he had suffered from for the past three days and was still feeling traces of, Valentine walked down the marble steps as calmly as he could, even when all he wanted to do was bound to that carriage, reach in and carry her out. He came to a halt before the door, just as Rose stepped out of the shadows, and left him feeling like the breath had been knocked out of him.

The colour of her dress was pastel pink, and it had a sweetheart neckline, devoid of any straps, baring her milky shoulders to him. The skirt was tulle and came down in tiers, the hemline stopping just above her knees. Around her waist was a black sash and she had on no jewellery save for a charm bracelet around her right wrist. Her brown hair cascaded in waves past her shoulders, stopping at her midsection, and it was pulled away from her face by a rose-shaped clip adorned with dazzling, dark little jewels that reminded him of his eyes.

He cracked a smile at her, trying to push away the nervousness so evident on her face, and then said, "Sahra?"

The sound she emitted was a cross between a giggle and a laugh, and it made her look more radiant than ever. He held out his hand, and she placed her own in his, stepping out of the carriage. He led her into the foyer where a lot of elegantly dressed people were standing together in groups, deep in conversation. He'd greeted each and every one of them, shaken their hands and chatted with them as they entered his house, and he'd done all this while waiting for her to arrive.

He steered her towards a corner behind the sea of people in the foyer, next to a gilded table whose middle stood a crystal glass filled to the brim with yellow orchids and hibiscuses. He pressed his back against the wall and encircled her in his arms, drawing her closer and closer until she was pressed against him. He trailed kisses down the side of her face, down to the length of her neck, and then back up to her cheek. His hands were restless, though, and he let them move up and down her arms, rubbing sensuously against her skin. She sighed contentedly, but then placed her hands on his own and brought them down to her waist, where they'd originally been.

"Let's not get naughty now, Angel," she said, laughing.

He laughed with her, and planted more kisses along her face, then stopped and kissed behind her ear, making her shiver. He was just about to whisper something into her ear, something about escaping up to his bedroom once they'd eaten, but all his plans were thwarted by his mother when she clinked a spoon against her champagne glass, calling for everyone's attention.

Valentine stopped leaning against the wall, standing up straight instead and moving to his girlfriend's side. His mother was saying something at the head of the room. She was most probably thanking the guests for being here, and expressing her endless gratitude for their support. Valentine had paid avid attention to what his mother was saying—up until she mentioned his father, and started talking about him and how he happy he would've felt were he here that all his friends had gathered in his home for a night of laughter, replacing the sorrow that had taken over the manor since he departed this earth.

He really couldn't listen to that. It had been over nine months since his father died, but it was still too soon for him to hear his father being spoken of in such a way: _dead_.

Rose had noticed the way Valentine suddenly tensed. She edged closer to him and laced her fingers through his once she was close enough, prompting him to squeeze her hand. She looked up at the man next to her, smiling as reassuringly as she could, and her smile was reciprocated.

He wanted nothing more than to pull her into his embrace then and bury his face into the crook of her neck, but that would seem slightly off in such a formal setting. So he didn't, but God, how he wanted to.

Before he knew it, the speech was over and he was forced to play the role of a host, standing responsibly at the archway leading into the dining room, smiling and nodding at his guests. Rose was still by his side, her arm linked with his, and she smiled and nodded at his guests, too—the perfect hostess. She even uttered a cheerful, "Hi!" at the Starkweather's and Hodge when they passed.

When all the guests had entered the dining room, he led her to her seat beside him, pulling her chair out for her, just the way a gentleman should. He kissed her on the top of her head as he stood behind her chair, causing her to look up at him, beaming. His mother would be at the door at any second, and he wanted her completely at ease before she met her. The lady of the Morgenstern household, he knew, could come off as ferocious, frightening and stand-offish.

He left her side when he could make out the beginnings of her silhouette at the archway and strode over to where she was, offering her his arm. She took it, smiling radiantly at him, and he brought her all the way to the head of the table, and all through that time, she kept smiling. She was genuinely happy. It was authentic, not something that she would fake to impress family friends. They got closer and closer to the head of the table, where he would sit, and his mother would be seated to his right, and he smiled even wider as he said the words he'd thought of saying since the incident at the library with Rose. "Mother, I want you to meet my girlfriend." As soon as that sentence was finished, they were at his mother's seat and he gestured towards the young woman already sitting opposite her. He bit his lower lip for a fraction of a second and then continued, "Mother, this is Rosalind."

Christine's smile that had been present all this time disappeared when her eyes rested on the young woman Valentine had introduced as his girlfriend. A rage built up quickly inside her, and it was reaching breaking point. She wanted to pick up her plate and hurl it across the room. She wanted to pick up a fork and stab the human girl with it.

Oh, yes, she could tell that the young woman was human.

But, instead of doing all those things, she turned sharply around and stalked out of the dining room into the kitchen.

To say that Valentine was shocked was an understatement. He hadn't at all expected his mother to react as such. His mother, who was always the perfect lady, the perfect hostess, had looked at Rose, the woman he loved, with eyes full of hatred and walked away from them both. He looked down the dining table, and after he was assured that no one had witnessed the scene that had just unfolded, he followed his mother into the kitchen.

The first thing he saw of his mother was her back, and that fuelled his rage even more. "Mother! What the hell was that?" He pointed in the direction of the door, but both knew that he was referring to what had happened at the dining table.

Christine turned around, her eyes alight with a fire he hadn't seen since his father died. She was angry, and he wasn't sure what about. That is, until she opened her mouth to speak. "I don't want you to be with her. That girl is not good enough for you. She is not what you want."

"I think," his voice was beginning to rise. He was furious with his mother's behaviour. God, all the things that must be going through Rose's head at that very moment, "that I am a better judge of what it is that I do and don't want. And I'll tell you this, Mother—I want _her_. I want the girl that you just rudely walked away from. I love her."

"No, you don't!" Christine was yelling now, too. It was a good thing that no one in the dining room could hear them from this side of the kitchen.

"You don't get to tell me how I feel! You don't get to decide whom I love! Just because you are my mother, it doesn't—"

_Smack_! Her hand collided with his cheek, and the sound that was produced when skin met skin and actually _broke_ skin was loud to both their ears. He couldn't suppress the stunned look, couldn't hide it from his face when he turned back to his mother. He pressed two fingers to his cheek where she'd hit him and then pulled it away and looked at it. There was blood. Not much of it, but there it was.

Valentine's mother was breathing heavily. "You would do well not to forget, Valentine, that I _am_ your mother, and I am telling you right now that you will break off things with that girl and get her out of Idris. Send her back to wherever she came from."

He couldn't say anything. His mother was talking about Rose as if she were one of the demons his kind killed, like she was vermin. He shook his head and began to walk away.

"Valentine!" his mother called. "She is not good for you, son."

"How can you know that when you've never even given her a chance?" He turned back around to face his mother as those words left his lips, and in that moment, there was nothing more he wanted to do than break down into tears. But he would never do that.

His mother sighed heavily, exasperated with her son. "She is dangerous, Valentine."

He closed his eyes, and for the longest moment, there was nothing between them but silence. Then he swiveled on his heel, pushed the door open and, once he was sure that his mother couldn't see him, he tore through the dining room towards Rose, who was already standing, worry making a frown dance on her brow, and grabbed her hand and pulled her along behind him as he ran up to his bedroom.

Valentine all but broke through the door, so strong was the force he used to open it. He led her into his bedroom and left her standing by his bed, walking distractedly to his closet. Tears were beginning to well up in his eyes at the thought of his mother, and what he'd said to her. He knew he must've broken her heart, but he couldn't let her do this to him! He loved Rose. He was in love with her, and she made him so undeniably happy. Why wouldn't his mother let him be happy?

A duffel bag was lying on the floor. He'd pulled it out only a second ago, and as he did so, he started crying. The tears rolled freely down his cheeks, and still his tear ducts were producing more. He grabbed random items of clothing, unable to see anything properly through the blur of his tears. He did, however, have enough presence of mind to get up and retrieve the phonebook he'd ordered from his desk—the package. He dropped it into the duffel bag and bent down to zip it up.

That was when he felt a weight crash into his back and he straightened immediately, allowing her to wrap her arms about his shoulders, clasping her hand in his own. "Valentine—"

She'd wanted to say more, he knew, but he couldn't bear to hear anything right now. Instead he turned around and tried his best to smile brightly at her, even as more tears trickled down his cheeks. She reached out and cupped his face in both her hands. Her mouth opened again. She was going to talk some sense into him. But he didn't want that right now, so he forced his smile to remain on his lips and turned his head to kiss her palm. "Let's go to Amsterdam," he said to her.


	22. Chapter Twenty One

_Dial one for housekeeping._ Ought she to dial one for housekeeping or zero for the front desk? She didn't think that the front desk delivered hygiene packs to the guests' rooms, but then if she dialed for housekeeping, there might be no answer and five minutes after, there would be a housekeeper at the door, with her trolley, expecting to tidy the room when all she'd truly wanted was a toothbrush and toothpaste.

"Gosh," she breathed, sitting hunched on the side of the bed, both hands on either sides of her. Should she wake him up and ask? She'd never been to a hotel before without the most basic of necessities and certainly not without a change of clothes, but this jaunt to Amsterdam had been so sudden, as had his God-of-doom demeanor at the dinner party. She was simply too shocked to remind him that she had nothing to bring to Amsterdam save for the clothes already on her back and the hundred Euros in her purse. A hundred Euros was not enough to buy clothes for however long he wanted to keep her here!

Her lips parted and a sigh whistled through them. She had to wake him up. There was nothing else to it. Either she woke him up, resulting in the hygiene pack she so desperately wanted and _needed_ or not speak to him for the rest of the day until she could find a Guardian or Watson or even a corner store to get a simple toothbrush. But if she did—wake him up, that is—she would look like such a complete imbecile. Of the two, she thought that the latter was a resoundingly worse outcome.

Frustrated now, Rose laid back down onto the bed heavily, her feet still touching the floor. It was a decidedly uncomfortable position, considering the fact that her hip was twisted in the most peculiar way, but it was what she felt like doing at the moment. Swiping what looked like a brochure off the nightstand, she began chewing on her lower lip. This was all Valentine's fault. He'd been so desperate to get out of his house, to get out of Alicante, and for reasons unknown to her, that he'd completely forgotten about her and the things she would need for a trip to Amsterdam. She flipped the brochure open, and her eyes scanned the page, but her mind registered not a single word. When he'd stormed out of the room, looking like a Greek deity of war, and walked right up to her, taking her hand and ushering her out of her seat, she'd been genuinely gobsmacked. "Let's go to Amsterdam," was the only thing he said after a frantic packing of a travel bag and she'd been far too surprised to say otherwise or anything, for that matter.

But she supposed she knew that, from somewhere deep inside her, it wasn't surprise that had kept her lips sealed. There was an unspoken knowledge, one that the both of them knew of that night. He needed to do this. For whatever reason that he wasn't telling her, he needed to get out of that manor. He needed to get away from what had become the norm for him. In that moment, when she'd looked on silently as he grabbed random articles of clothing and tossed them into a backpack, somehow she'd understood that he wanted to be out of his life, even if for just a day.

That's why she didn't protest, didn't say anything.

Sighing, Rose began to turn her attention back to the brochure, and it turned out that it wasn't that, after all. It was a telephone directory, with codes of different countries illustrated neatly on the first page, and then a list of numbers one should dial when needing anything from the hotel. And there it was, at the very bottom of the list, clear as day—1 for a hygiene pack, which included a toothbrush, toothpaste and hand sanitizer.

She looked to the numbers on the telephone. There was a single button with a number one in bold above the rest of the numbers, and it looked exactly like the one in the directory. She pressed it and a light at the very corner of the telephone flashed orange. Retracting her form from the nightstand, she sat primly on the edge of the bed, frowning and her back ramrod straight. Perhaps that was it and all she had to do now was wait.

She pulled herself onto the bed so that her legs were no longer dangling over the edge and sat in the centre, her legs straightened before her and then crossed, her attention paid fully to the man sleeping across the room, all six feet and four inches of him crammed into a couch that was infinitely too small, his knees brought up halfway to his abdomen in an attempt to fit more comfortably into the piece of furniture. The hotel was what Valentine had described to her as a boutique hotel. It was located in the middle of a city and was nothing bigger than a five storey structure. No two rooms were the same, he'd told her, and then flicked his eyes sideways to look at her, a small smile lifting the maudlin air in the cab as he said, "I'll be damned before I let you sleep in a second-rate hotel, my love."

Forget the fact that he'd been willing to spend so much money on keeping her comfortable, as if that alone weren't already enough to make any girl melt. But then he'd called her _my love_, and the way that his face softened when he said those two words—how could any girl claiming to be normal not feel the blood rush up to her cheeks after something like that?

Valentine shifted positions in his sleep, a sleepy sound, a cross between a moan and an "Hmm" bringing her back from the cab and into the hotel room they shared. It was cute how he'd been so unwilling to scandalize her or in any way tarnish her good reputation and lady-like sensibilities, even when he'd neglected to bring more money with him when they left the house and ultimately made it nigh impossible for them to not share a room.

She realised, with a fair dosage of wonder, that she had never before been awake before he'd risen. They'd fallen asleep in each other's arms twice now, but every time she would open her eyes, she'd always meet his. But now, he was fast asleep on the couch, his leg bent to lift the brown woolen blanket up like a tent and the other straightened as far as it could go. The covers had slid down considerably, presumably when he'd raised his arm to wedge it in between his head and the soft cushion, baring his chest to her. Valentine had always struck her as the kind of man who would sleep in nothing but his pants, but seeing and living it elsewhere than in her mind knocked her clean of breath.

He was muscular in all the right places and seemed so positively male, exactly the way a Shadowhunter should look. But asleep, he bore no resemblance—not a hint!—to the man who'd spirited her away from her hospital ward in Paris. He didn't look like the man who'd kissed her, so rough and unrefined, in the clearing, surrounded by trees when they'd fallen out of a faulty, upside down Portal. He didn't seem like that warrior who'd taken a poisonous bite to save her. He just looked like the seventeen year old boy he actually was, relaxed and gearing up to face his life, to face his future.

And sooner or later, she would have to face that future as well. In the back of her mind, there will always be that niggling thought, just as it was present now, about what would happen once all of this was over. What would they do when she was finally free of her troubles, when they'd found and caught the people looking for her? She couldn't stay in Alicante forever with him and especially not after she'd run away from home. Her aunt and uncle would be looking for her, worried. Her life was in England, she knew, and his was in Idris, as a Shadowhunter. Would he even let her leave? Or would his love have diminished until it wouldn't hurt him to see her walk away?

The doorbell rang, a high, shrill sound, and she watched as Valentine opened his eyes, jolted out of sleep, sitting upright on the couch. She pushed aside all thoughts of the future. She wouldn't think about that now. She couldn't. She was in Amsterdam with him, in bed while he'd resigned himself to spending an uncomfortable night in a sofa after she'd given up the argument over who should sleep in the bed and why he couldn't just lie next to her. She'd fairly screamed that they could put the bolster between them and that she was certain he wouldn't do anything to her anyway. He'd silenced her into surrender with a simple, "I am a man," leaving her standing in front of the bed, her mouth agape.

The future hadn't yet come, and she would only worry after it when it was staring her dead in the eye.

She scurried out of bed, the quilt and linen bed sheets rustling as she hurriedly climbed out and rushed to the door. She could feel Valentine's eyes on her back as she pulled the door open. The face of a beaming man greeted her eyes. He handed her a small, semi-clear bag and she could see that it had the dental hygiene kit that she so badly wanted, after which she profusely thanked him and he wished her a pleasant stay. She turned back around and kicked the door shut, her eyes now trained on the Shadowhunter in her room, suspicion written in capital letters all over his face. "It was housekeeping," she said in a no nonsense, matter-of-fact tone.

"They want to clean the room at this unholy hour?" he asked, still suspicious, a single eyebrow raised.

She'd always been jealous of people who could do that. She's tried to do it before and she failed miserably. "No. I'd asked for a hygiene pack, seeing as how I don't have my own toothbrush or toothpaste."

Rose imagined a light bulb lighting on the top of Valentine's head when he realized exactly what she meant. "I am so sorry. I can't believe how stupid I was to not think of that," he said, the words leaving his mouth in rapid succession. He truly must feel terrible. "I swear on everything that is good in this world, we will find you clothes later." But even as he said that, he had put his hands up to his eyes, wanting to rub the sleep away.

Coming closer and closer to him, Rose knelt down next to the sofa and asked, voice soft and gentle, "Are you tired?" He shook his head, but why shouldn't he, right? Why would he admit to being tired? "I'm going to go freshen up. I don't think anything's going to happen to me while I'm in the bathroom. Even I am not that prone to danger. You can rest if you want to."

He lowered his hands to his lap and looked at her as if she had three heads and she laughed merrily as she got up and headed for the bathroom, looking over her shoulder for a little bit when she teased him. "But I guess the idea of resting must be foreign and atrocious to a warrior like you."

"What?" He called after her. "What is—" And the rest of his words made not the slightest bit of sense to her, muffled as they were by the wooden door.

Freshening up and making herself look decent turned out to take longer than expected, more over when she found that the hotel provided cleansing facial wash for its guests. When sleep was gone from her eyes and she'd pinched her cheeks enough to turn them a soft shade of pink, she exited the bathroom to find the couch empty. The V of his name was on the tip of her tongue when she turned her head to the left and saw that he was lying on the bed, his legs outstretched, and his hands holding the quilt to his chin. His eyes were shut and for a moment, she thought that he was feigning sleep, but then she approached him and she could see the steady rise and fall of his chest, never once falling out of rhythm and heard a light snore accompanying his soft breathing.

Quite unable to ward off the smile that tackled her and subsequently drew itself onto her lips, Rose turned away, crossing to the other side of the room to put more distance between him and her before she could jump into bed and kiss him awake. It had been her every intention to direct herself to the couch, pick up the brown blanket he'd abandoned in exchange for the soft and luxurious quilt and fold it neatly, but then a gentle breeze blew in and hit her shoulder, causing her to shiver as a trail of ice made its way up her spine, and she made the mistake of turning her attention to the window, slightly ajar. The heavy burgundy curtains swayed backwards and forwards for a fraction of an inch.

She was sure that she hadn't left the window open before she entered the bathroom. There was no way she could have when she hadn't been near the window at all. A soft clearing of her throat prevented her breath from being caught in it. She didn't know why she was being so jumpy, so afraid. The window was open. And what of it? Winter was coming and the heater had been on the whole night. Perhaps Valentine thought that the room felt stuffy and chose to leave the window open. She twisted her torso a little and looked back at the man in bed, sleeping soundly. He'd turned to his side and brought the covers tighter around his person.

"He left the window open, yet he's the one who's freezing his butt off," she muttered indignantly to herself. Were men, no matter how serious and well-trained and not even completely human they were, always so full of nonsense?

Halfway to the couch now, she turned away from it and walked towards the window. The fluffy white carpet that covered the entire hotel room's floor was soft underneath the soles of her feet and felt like heaven as the soft material slipped through her toes, and she was grateful for it. Heaven only knew how cold a wooden floor would feel, and especially when she had no slippers on.

Once close enough, she parted the curtains enough to allow her arm to fit through and pulled the window shut, registering that the prettiest pink hue had been drawn in a straight line across the horizon, a shocking splash of colour in a sky that was already beginning to turn blue. It was dawn, and she'd seen it before, in Paris, when the sky looked like it had been stolen from a painting in the Louvre. Back then, however, it only served as a reminder that she'd lived to run another day. Now it was beautiful.

Just as everything seemed to be. For however long this moment between her and Valentine was going to last, all was right in the world. It was a cliché thought, but there it was. She truly didn't have to worry about anything, and certainly not about a future that she wasn't sure would ever come. Valentine being who he was, she was certain that he would think of something to bring an end to their problem.

And this time, when a smile came onto her lips, she didn't try to stop it. Everything that happened in life could bring you up or crush you, but it was all up to your state of mind. She could choose to dwindle away on negative thoughts, but positive ones were what would get her through, and right now, she had every reason to smile. She knew that she did.

Below, the city of Amsterdam was coming to life. Or at least the bakery was.

The other buildings surrounding the hotel were significantly smaller than the five floor structure itself, but they fit into Amsterdam like perfect puzzle pieces. There was a whole row of shops just in front of the hotel, directly opposite its driveway and tiny Japanese garden. The bakery was a quaint little thing, with fresh flowers in flower boxes of an array of colours arranged neatly outside white picket fences. She could see the elegant white chairs, wooden with the most delicate engraving of flowers she didn't recognise, still stacked on glass-top tables with a stand shaped to look like a Roman pillar. The building itself had a roof of white with red stripes and the walls were a calming cream. Next to the bakery was a restaurant, painted a bold, angry red with the most fetching black polka dots here and there. Just as the bakery had the classical white picket fences, the restaurant had a bronze-coloured metal railing and its furniture was in odd shapes. The chairs had single legs instead of the usual four, and the backs looked like a child had come by and cut through the plastic with a pair of scissors. They were slanted and the lines were squiggly, but somehow, they fit perfectly with the image of the restaurant.

Those two stores were in such stark contrast of one another, but it signified what Amsterdam was to her, a perfect blend of the future they wanted to reach for and the past, the history that they wanted to hold onto. And the city was such a beautiful thing. It wasn't a wonder that people claimed the city of Amsterdam to be one of the most romantic places in the world.

Turning her back to the window, she set herself to going back to the couch. Maybe she could turn on the television and watch some programme or another without waking Valentine. There was nothing else for her to do anyway.

Still in the pink dress she'd worn to the dinner party at Morgenstern Manor, cold air slid across her bare shoulders, kissing her face and for the second time in less than two minutes, she shivered. She'd closed the window! Why was there still cold air blowing into the room? Had she missed one, not seen another opened window?

Reprimanding herself, Rose swiveled around to march back to the window—and stopped dead in her tracks because there, clearly in her line of sight, was an obviously male, dark haired figure, looming like the Grim Reaper just beyond the window. She started to run forward, but felt like she was a car and she'd crashed into a concrete wall. She stopped so suddenly that her hair whipped forward, past her face and hanged down her shoulders, as if a sudden gust of wind had blown them out of place. She couldn't move, frozen, glued to the floor she stood on. And then he was in the room, leaning against the window sill, his body turned sideways, intent on watching something on the far side of the room. A lump formed in her throat, making it harder to breathe, and she gulped, not needing to turn her head to know what he was looking at.

_So this is the boy who's kept you from me all this time. It's nice to finally meet him in the flesh._ The sound of the voice was beautiful, like molten silk sliding into her ears and the words imprinted in her mind like a white hot blade branding a slave. It was a voice that she knew all too well.

He moved the tiniest bit, light hitting the perfectly angular planes of his face, and his pale skin seemed to shine. The first thought to hit her was that he looked like marble, beautiful, sculpted by the most talented of artisans. Though his hair hid most of his face from view, obliterating any chances of recognition, she could see his eyes, the colour of navy, and his smile, malicious and cruel. _Well, he's quite a catch, isn't he? The shining light of the Shadowhunter world, the one who will lead them into a new, golden age. You chose well._

Her lower lip started to tremble as she listened to him speak—if it could be called that at all. She felt so stupid. Were their roles reversed, and Valentine was in her place, he would have thought of something by now. He wouldn't be standing still, like a statue, afraid. _But, don't you worry, my dear. I won't kill him now. Catching you would be a hollow victory if I did, and where's the fun in that?_

She could hear him laugh even when his lips remained sealed, still touching the other, as he pulled the hood of his coat up over his head, casting a shadow that hid half of his face. He raised a hand to his lips and blew her a kiss, and all the while, his smile never disappeared. Then he was once again outside the window, fading into the sky.

Ice gripped her heart, made it stop beating, and she could feel it enveloping her whole body. He was here, the one who'd been looking for her. And he'd threatened to kill Valentine. At the thought of that, Rose felt her insides being torn apart, turning inside out, and then in the next, she felt strangely hollow and she clutched her abdomen with both hands, struggling to breathe, the absence of lungs making the intake of breath as well as exhalation difficult. He had been in this room and he could have killed Valentine if he wanted to. She could have lost him then and there.

Tears flowed freely down her cheeks—tears that she didn't even know she had conjured. But it wasn't for her. It was for him, for the man who's promised to protect her, to help her. It was for the strong, steadfast Nephilim she'd come to love and the man she could have lost. He was all she could think of, all that occupied her mind. What if something had happened to him? What if her pursuer had taken a knife to his heart?

It was an idea that made her heart beat faster, made it kick against her chest. She couldn't lose him.

She _couldn't_ lose him, and at the realization of that, as if possessed by something or someone, she made a mad dash for the door. Pulling it open with more force than was necessary, Rose took flight down the corridor. Time seemed to come to a standstill as she ran past door after door after door, trying to get to the elevator. So much so that she couldn't tell the difference between three minutes and three years. But she couldn't remember the texture of the carpet against her bare feet, and she supposed that they barely touched the ground, a testament to just how fast she was going. It seemed ridiculous to think that she'd been running for three years, but to her, that's what it felt like. Her legs would not stop, paid no heed to her brain, to logic that was giving out signals for them to stop. She didn't even know where she was going.

It came from deep within her, this primal urge to protect him just as he had her. Although she wanted to fall to the ground and kick and scream and cry over this thing that was her life, over a happiness that she'd come so close to losing, she couldn't. That wasn't what he would do.

So she ran. She just ran and ran and then ran some more. The only time she'd actually stopped was in the elevator, and even that didn't last long. Before she knew it, she was out of the hotel, and onto the streets of Amsterdam. The pedestrian walkways were paved with cobblestones and had gaps between them. As she moved quickly down the street, turning into corners she'd never set foot on in her life, the chill of the late autumn air pierced through her skin, sinking deep into her bones, and she could feel the corners of the cobblestones breaking her skin, cutting into the soft flesh of the soles of her feet.

But of course the contractors never would have thought of blunting the edges of the cobblestones. Never in their years would they have thought that some less than sane woman would be tearing down the walkways they'd paved, barefooted.

Cold had been absorbed into the stone as well and it pricked the soles of her feet, the skin prickling from the inside out, the icy walkway like a thousand miniscule ants, biting away. Blood hammered through her veins, making the beating of her heart thunder in her ears. She could hear it and it was louder than anything else in the world. It was too early in the morning for the streets to be crowded with bodies, but there was the odd scooter zipping past and a person or two walking calmly in the opposite direction. She could hear none of them.

What am I doing? she asked herself, feeling the tulle of her skirt beating against her legs, feeling the air whistle by her ears, her hair flowing freely behind her as if carried by invisible hands. The wind nipped away at her face and slowly but surely, they began to numb. What am I doing? She asked again, the only thing she seemed capable of thinking.

"I've lost my mind," a voice in her head said, and she was inclined to agree with it. She had gone crazy. How else could she explain running barefoot around Amsterdam without a coat, her hair a tangled mess?

This was how it ended then?

Rose felt her legs slow down to a jog, though not of her own accord, and then from a jog, she slowed to a walk, lifting her head up towards the sky. The pinkish hue was gone and the sun shone brightly in the clear, blue sky. It seemed to her that it was unfair, that the world should be so beautiful when she felt so ugly, so horrid.

This had to be how it ended. She would never return to the boutique hotel he'd taken her to only last night, and she wouldn't see him again. Doubtless, the dark haired, navy eyed man in her hotel room would find her huddled in a corner of a back alley somewhere and when he held out a hand to her, she would reach for it. All this time, she'd tried so hard to keep sane, to never give into what her pursuer wanted, but he'd been there. He was so close. He could have taken Valentine away at a moment's notice, and she couldn't have done anything about it. Somehow, that was the catalyst for all this. He had won. How could she not give up?

She didn't want Valentine, strong-willed, powerful, unbeatable, unstoppable, to get hurt. And if she stayed, this insanity would only grow, would only spread until she dragged him down with her.

Shrugging her shoulders to fight against the cold, there was a weight on them that she'd never noticed before and when she looked down at her feet, splashes of red on the pallid, porcelain skin, she took note of the fact that she'd stopped walking, stopped moving. And then suddenly there were arms around her. Strong ones that wrapped about her waist like an iron band, then she was yanked backwards, and for a second or two, her feet were no longer touching the ground. Her stomach lurched and her heart jumped into her throat. It had been so sudden, and done with such brute force, she felt as if someone had pushed her back while pulling the rest of her—her soul and whatever else there was in her body—forward. Almost tumbling onto the walkway, Rose quickly regained her footing and took great big strides backwards, keeping up with whoever it was that was pulling her, going wherever he wanted her to go. More and more, she could feel her feet being slashed open by the sharp edges of the cobblestones, but adrenaline or perhaps just sheer ignorance, saved her from feeling any pain.

And then they stopped, just as suddenly as they had started to move, and she was pushed up against a wall. The crudely made wall, cement and hard, rough, should have rubbed against her back, should have made the skin turn red, but clarity overwhelmed her since she first left the hotel and she realised that a heavy, brown leather duster had been set on her shoulders, providing her warmth to counter the onslaught of the cold wind blowing by. And also for the first time, the prickling in her feet turned into something more, delivering many a mixed messages of pain to her brain. It was like wildfire, stopping not at the soles of her feet, but making its way up to her knees where it felt like every nerve ending was simmering like boiling water. She recognized the simmering for what it was, of course—muscle fatigue. Much time, and certainly more than she had anticipated, must have gone by before she was stopped.

A hand came up to her face, holding her chin in between its thumb and forefinger, lifting her face. The first thing she noticed was his eyes, strange and somewhat mystical, the way a snake's was. Frowning, she closed her eyes and counted till five in her mind, and then opened them again. The man before her still possessed the eyes of a snake, bright yellow with thin, black pupils. His skin was far too white to belong to any human and he had silver markings coiling up his neck and the left side of his face, all the way to his eye.

"Why, my dear, it seems that I can't hide from you," he said softly, his voice entering her ear like a snake slithering over her body. He was bracing himself against the wall, both his hands on either sides of her head, his arms acting like a cage and the close proximity of his body to her own trapped her. Running away wasn't an option.

Her eyes widened and her lips parted, an invitation for him to continue speaking, albeit a nervous one. He flashed her a smile, close-lipped and tight and completely and utterly insincere. "Does your little boyfriend know you're here?" he asked, his eyes darting to the right when a passerby was looking a little too long for his liking. But that happened for only the briefest of moments and when the next came along, his eyes were back on her and his smile returned. Rose shook her head slowly. Her answer seemed to please him. "Rose—may I call you Rose? I know that the Nephilim does." He was quiet for a tenth of a second, time that he judged was enough for her to give him a reply and when she said nothing, he continued, "How much do you love him, Rose?"

That question struck a nerve with her and she ended her silence, saying a little too quickly, "More than I can say."

He nodded away, as if that was the most accurate answer she could have given him. "That's good. That is very good. Can I tell you a little secret, my child?"

"I don't want to know anything," she blurted out, desperation making a wild grab at her heart now. She didn't want to be here. More importantly, she didn't want to be around him. He wasn't from this world. That much was clear.

He laughed, a low sound that came from his throat, and it made her heart fall eight storey's and stop beating. "You don't want to know anything," he repeated, amusement clouding over his eyes, evident in the tone he'd adopted. "Well, it doesn't matter. Not to me."

And then he was gone. His arms were no longer on either side of her, and his body was no longer a hair's breadth away from hers. He wasn't there anymore. Inhaling deeply, she looked around, then pushed herself away from the wall and pulled the leather duster tight around her shoulders.

"Rose," his voice sounded in her ear, and she could feel his breath on her skin, warm, making the fine hairs on her arms and the back of her neck stand. She screamed and turned sharply to her right, where she'd heard the voice. There was nothing. "Rose," he said again, and this time, she turned to her left and took a step backwards, stepping on a Coke can and falling. She landed on the ground with an audible thud, her head snapping back and coming into contact with the tar-paved street, a cracking sound filling her ears. An unbearable pain lingered on the back of her head and it seeped into her brain. Her mouth opened in a silent scream as she tried her best to suppress the pain.

"Stars, hide thy fires!" she heard in her left ear, and a second later, in her right ear, he whispered, as if it was the most precious secret in the world, "Let light not see my black and deep desires." Then he laughed again, sinister and dark, and suddenly his voice was assaulting her hearing from everywhere, calling her name, laughing and then calling for her again. She couldn't escape it. There was no way that she possibly could.

Rose moved to the wall, leaning heavily against it, pressing her hands to her ears. The world spun around her, the cement wall and street mashing together, forming a vortex around her. She felt nauseous, her eyes hurt and her heart had dropped into her stomach, tied together. Stop, she chanted over and over again in her head. She wanted it to stop. She _needed_ it to stop. Not knowing what else to do, she screamed.

She screamed until her throat hurt. She screamed until she couldn't breathe. She screamed until it looked like she would never stop. And then—

"Miss Wyatt!" a familiar voice called. "Miss Wyatt!" She could barely hear him over her screams, and she couldn't see him, her eyes squeezed shut. But she knew that he was getting ever closer and the terror that filled her person increased tenfold when she heard his footsteps, shoes clicking against the street. "Miss Wyatt!" he shouted at her, his voice loud, _close_. Hands came up to grip her wrists and yank them down, but she wouldn't open her eyes. She felt her hands being crossed and slender fingers holding them together. Then there was a hand on her cheek, warm and loving. "It's me," she heard him say. "Magnus Bane."

* * *

**A/N: I have rewritten this chapter FOUR times, and I was incredibly afraid of posting this because, as you already know, it's written in Rose's point of view. Sort of. Anyway, I've always maintained that I had this whole story planned out, but then I started writing this and I figured, "Hey, why not start developing Rose as a character? After all, it's actually a story about Valentine AND her." I know it's weird that after twenty chapters of Valentine, Valentine, Valentine, I've suddenly written about Rose...so you can understand why I was apprehensive of posting this chapter up. There are two versions of this chapter, and this happened to be my favourite. I really, really, really like it. So, let's see who's still following this story now, shall we?**


	23. Chapter Twenty Two

It was the first time in months – since his father died, really – that Valentine hadn't woken up with a start. When he breathed in, the air didn't feel like liquid fire barrelling its way through his nasal cavity and down his trachea. His body hadn't reacted to some slight sound, practically inaudible to human ears. It hadn't been paranoia that jolted him awake, afraid of his own shadow even as he slept. Rather, it had been the pleasant sound of running water, hitting the ground in an oddly soothing rhythm and the heat of sunlight upon his face that had made him open his eyes. He found himself almost smiling – but not quite – as warmth greeted him, as it kissed his face and blinded his eyes when he awoke. Valentine turned his face further into the pillow, one eye covered and the other cracked open to a slit, taking in the sight of the analogue clock on the bedside table. Half-past-eight it read. In the morning.

He rolled over onto his back, the sheets tangling low about his waist as he did so. His insides felt warm and fuzzy and comfortable. Funny that his body should feel so cramped, the way it often did when he'd slept in a less than welcoming piece of furniture. Like last night when he'd slept in that couch, tiny as it was, for the sake of her virtue. He rolled over again, this time onto his front. His body probably just wasn't used to waking up at this hour. He'd made a habit out of waking early, as all Shadowhunters did, and even more recently, before sunrise. His person was protesting the excess in sleep, well deserved though it may be.

Valentine kicked the sheets off of him. The goose-down mattress topper and pillow were enveloping him, like a mother holding her child close, but he'd better get up and out of bed before his body found more things to protest.

He propped himself up onto his forearms and bent his head forward to put it in range of his hand, pushing his white-gold hair back. He then rolled over again – for a _third _time! That had to be some sort of an accomplishment – and swung his legs over the side of the bed, planting his feet firmly on the ground and forcing himself out of the bed. He strode over to the couch which had been his bed mere hours ago and picked up the shirt he'd left hanging over the back of it, except it was no longer hanging but folded, neatly and crisply. He had yet to see anyone fold anything as neatly as he did, but this came close. He picked it up, shrugged it on and walked over to the bathroom.

Pushing the door open, the first thing that met his eyes when he entered were her own wide, circular ones staring back at him. She had a toothbrush in her mouth and her hair was wrapped up in a towel styled like a turban. The rest of her was covered in nothing more than a snow-white towel that came halfway down her thighs. He warmed instantly, a rush of blood travelling up to his head.

"Well?" That was the first thing he'd heard all morning, and it came from her, staring incredulously at him.

His hand still on the doorknob, Valentine made no move to depart from the doorway. Was he supposed to? "Well what?"

She rolled her eyes at him. "Your girlfriend's in a towel and you're standing in the doorway of the bathroom. What are you going to do?"

In response, Valentine finally moved away from the door, but instead of his form retreating into the room, she saw him coming towards her and then he was right in front of her, his arms wrapping about her waist, lifting her and pulling her flush against him. She was, after all, a head and a half – or a quarter, but he'd have to ascertain that later – shorter than him. Having nowhere else to go, her arms snaked over his shoulders, clutching to his back, feeling the sinewy muscles that seemed to leap under her touch.

Their kiss was deep and raw passion as they always were, and the blood rushing through his body was pure evidence to him of his desire for, of course, she couldn't know how wildly his body was reacting to her. But he had to stop. Now. Before he pulled away the towel from her person. Backing her up towards what he thought was the direction of the sink; Valentine finally placed her down onto _something_ and broke their embrace. His eyes opened now, he was thankful for the fact that she was seated on the counter and not in the sink because that was completely unsexy and would've cooled his ardour immediately. Perhaps he _should _pick her up and seat her in the sink. It couldn't be good for him, and especially for her, for him to want her so much and all the time.

"That…wasn't quite what I was expecting," she said to him, her eyes sparkling, and her lips swollen from their kiss, the words she spoke soft. He could see now, looking at her, that her chest was rising and falling faster than it would under normal circumstances. She was breathless and, oddly enough, he was pleased.

Valentine took her hand in his and brushed soft kisses over her knuckles, so soft that it was almost like he hadn't done them, like they had been butterflies fluttering their wings against her hand. "You must know, _Schatz_, that I never back down from a challenge."

"It wasn't a challenge. It was me sarcastically telling you to leave and shut the door behind you."

"You hadn't sounded very sarcastic to my ears, _Schatz._"

Rose did it again, roll her eyes at him, and he moved closer to her, standing between her legs now, bending down so he could rest his head against her forehead. Seated atop the counter, she was almost as tall as him. "I like it when you do that," he said softly to her, like it was a precious secret and he didn't want anyone else to know about it. "When you roll your eyes at me. It's endearing. No one rolls their eyes at me, you know."

"Yet I seem to be able to avoid your wrath whenever I do something that might upset you. That can't be nice to the other girls."

"There are no other girls. There will be no other girls." At that, Valentine opened his eyes, looking into her light violet ones. They bordered a little more on purple than blue today. Undoubtedly, they would change again as soon as they managed to bring themselves to leave the bathroom, but for now they were purple and they were beautiful. He wished now that he'd gotten his father's blue, blue eyes as opposed to his mother's dark ones. "Everything you do is endearing," he continued, his hand cupping the side of her face, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. "I can't quite fathom it, and I hate it when I am unable to understand things. But I don't want to understand you. You're a great mystery, the sort that impacts life. Yet, I want to unravel you, to know what it is that makes you so you. Does that make any sense, you think?"

Her cheeks had been stained a delightful shade of pink, but somehow she managed a cheeky smile and leaned forward to plant a kiss on his cheek. "I think that you've been reading too much Lord Byron. Any longer in this bathroom with me and you'll be writing sonnets and poems."

As much as he loathed leaving the bathroom and the state that they were in, he had to admit that Rose was right. He had to end this now or he'd never be able to get his plans underway. Valentine had been able to flip through the pages of the phone book last night while she slept and had found the address of the writer of that book he'd read when he first met her. He didn't know how long it would take to extract information from him –if he knew anything − either by charm and wit or by violence and force, but he couldn't take the risk of her asking questions. He had to get her tired before he could do anything and what better way was there to do that than to take her sightseeing around Amsterdam?

He leaned into her once again, planting one last kiss on her lips, then quickly pulled away lest he lose control completely over himself and slams a door on his plans. "You should finish washing up. I have big plans for you."

As he walked away, heading for the door, he heard her call after him, "You do realise that I have no clothes with me, right? Just the pink dress I'd worn last night."

Despite his best efforts, Valentine couldn't quite hold back the smile that crept up to his lips. "Darling, that's what you have me for."

* * *

They had been in the hotel room together with Rose frantically searching his duffel bag for a coat or jacket that would look decent over her dress and Valentine pulling on the coffee-coloured cable-knit sweater over the plain grey shirt he had on, when she suddenly asked, "Where are we anyway?" Valentine stopped moving. He thought it'd been quite clear that they were in Amsterdam. "I mean, I know we're in Amsterdam, but _where in Amsterdam_?"

_Ah, that made more sense._ "We're in Jordaan," he said to her, finishing the task of pulling the sweater over his head and tugging it down his torso. "I would've taken you to Leidseplein, where the five-star hotels are, but there are too many tourists there and I felt you'd like to avoid tourist traps, truly understand Amsterdam and not just its commercialised parts."

Upon hearing that, Rose looked up at him, her eyes dancing, the corners of her lips tugging upwards. "I can see that you agree with me," he went on, regarding her with kind, gentle eyes. He could never look at her the way he did others. He never wanted to. "And it is all well that we are in Jordaan, too. A mere stone's throw away from here is the Westerkerk Church, at the corner of Rozengracht and Prinsengracht. You'd know right away what it is when I take you there. The church rises above all other buildings. Rembrandt's body lays there."

"But do we _have_ to go see Rembrandt's body?" she asked, her tone slightly disappointed.

That piqued his attention immediately. "Well, you can't actually _see_ the body, but I'll tell you about that later. What is it, _liebling_? You don't want to visit his tomb?"

"Do _you _want to see it?"

"I've seen it a hundred times, Rose." He said, his voice completely deadpan.

"You have no interest in art?" he prodded on, watching her expression carefully. His family loved art. He listened to her as she explained that she did, indeed, like looking at art. "I mean, I know how to appreciate artwork," she'd said, but it was simply that she knew as much about art as she knew about riding horses – nothing apart from that fact that they are majestic, achingly beautiful things. "Alright," he said, somewhat a little too resigned for his taste. So she wasn't an artistic sort of person. They could share other passions. "How are you about history?" Her face lit up completely. "Did you know the house Anne Frank hid in is right here, in Jordaan?"

"I did know that, actually," she replied, a triumphant look running rampant about her face. He found that endearing, too, that she was so proud she knew something he did. Angel, but she confounded him sometimes.

Valentine approached her then and his fingers wrapped about her upper arms and hauled her to her feet. "Well, we'd better venture out as quickly as we can, then, before I get other ideas."

That comment had earned him a sound smack on his shoulder, but it was delivered gently and with a laugh. Clearly, her heart was not into it.

And so, here they were, in Anne Frank's House. He'd been here before and apart from the new manuscripts they'd added from her diary, there was not much difference. But, history was still history no matter how often one came across it, and it delighted him to pore over the manuscripts once more, reading every word as if from a gripping novel. It was only half an hour after arriving at the landmark that he'd noticed Rose was no longer beside him. He straightened to his full height and looked about the room for Rose. He found her standing in the doorway to a room, her petite frame filling only about half of it. He had reservations about going to stand behind her, not wanting to present himself as a big obstacle to those wanting to enter the room, but he was drawn to her like bees to honey. He couldn't not move towards her if he'd been taken to the depths of hell and chained to its fiery walls. No one seemed interested in the room anyway, everyone heading instead for the hiding room.

He walked up behind her, years of near torturous Shadowhunter training making his footsteps soundless, as if walking on air. Most people – indeed, even his mother – would yelp in surprise when he snuck up behind them and tapped on their shoulder, but when he wrapped an arm over Rose's chest, just about the region of her collarbone, she reached up for his arm with both hands and held onto them, leaning into him. It was like she could feel it was him, _know_ that it was him and no one else. The back of her head rested against him, the top of her head just barely meeting the top of his shoulder and compulsively, he lowered his head to her own and pressed a kiss into her scalp.

"What has you standing here all by your lonesome and so far away from me?" he asked, his voice picking up a tone he'd never used on anyone but her before. It was almost unrecognisable to his ears.

"At first I thought that this room was still under restoration. It was so empty and bleak and – well, _sad_. But then I thought, 'The door's open. The windows are open. If it were under restoration, why would it be so open to the public?' and suddenly, this strange sorrow just overwhelmed me." Rose twisted within the confines of his arm, turning to him and tilting her head up to look into his eyes, those bottomless, fathomless dark eyes of his. "I could see children in my mind, laughing and playing with toys in that room. I could see women –_ mothers _– watching their children play, laughing along with them, and sipping tea." For a moment, before she turned her face away, he could see her eyes turn steely and heard her voice become resolute when she said, "A home should not look like this."

Unbidden, an image of his own mother came to mind. Had she ever laughed while watching him play? Had he even played before? His life had seemed to be nothing more than day after day of practice and training and struggling to gain his father's approval. "You're right, of course, _Schatz_. This is a house, nothing more than the shell of a home." She had twisted her torso to enable her to look back at the empty room. He still kept his arms around her, though they were at her waist now. "It was Otto Frank's wishes that the room not be reconstructed the way it once was, beautiful though I'm sure it was. He said that the empty rooms symbolise the emptiness that was left behind by the millions who were taken away and never returned."

"Do Shadowhunters do things like this for their fallen comrades?" she suddenly asked. "Are there landmarks or memorials that tell the story of the sacrifices they've made?"

"I…no. No, there are no landmarks," he said in reply, drawing her close to him once more, feeling cold all of a sudden though no breeze blew past. "We fight and we die. That is what we do. Shadowhunters protect mundanes and fight demons as the mandate says we should. We live our lives knowing that one day, somewhere, we are going to die protecting a human that knows not of who we are, what we have done." He paused for a moment, but Rose continued to rest her head against his shoulder, breathing in the scent of him – musk from his cologne and a sweet, rich, almost vanilla smell from the soap he used. He was not done yet, she knew. "Our deaths go unnoticed, the pain of our families uncomforted, our sacrifices unappreciated. That is what it means to be Nephilim. It does not sound very promising at all, does it?"

She could feel his hand in her hair, playing with it, and hear the bit of humour he'd injected into his voice, yet something about him was strained. "Not you, though," she said sweetly to him, pulling away slightly and freeing her hands to cup his face. "People would remember you. People would mourn you."

"_Nephilim_ would mourn me, provided that no one died with me or after me. But people? They would continue about their lives, foolishly walking into danger, killing another one of us even if indirectly."

"I would mourn you," she said quite pointedly, still holding his head immobile, still looking at him.

He chuckled at the way she was so stubbornly trying to prove something to him. He released her from the iron band of his arms and reached up to pull away her hands from partway under his jaw. "Because you know me, Rose. You _see_ me." And now he had to stop before he started making an ass of himself with ridiculous romantic hyperboles. "But let's not talk about that. You haven't finished touring the house yet."

Falling away from each other as if they were plaster peeling from a wall, Valentine flashed her his most charming smile, then took her hand and guided her out, but not before she managed to get in, "If it helps, I love you all the more for what you do, how you so selflessly help others."

_Actually, no, that doesn't help. I don't want to selflessly help people, least of all mundanes who don't deserve it, who can never learn from anything. Let them be eaten raw by demons. See if I care. _"_Schatz_, how did we get onto a topic so morose?"

"Well, we're in a rather morose place. Brings up melancholy feelings. And then I asked about Shadowhunters and here we are, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, holding hands as those old ladies over there watch us with ridiculously wide smiles." It wasn't until Rose had raised her hand and waved at the old ladies in question did Valentine turn around and flash his most heart-stopping smile at them.

One of the old ladies turned to the other and said something into her ear, though Valentine couldn't quite make out what it was. Then the other old lady nodded and gestured at the both of them, at him and Rose, and asked in a very heavy Italian accent, "How long married?"

He couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up in his throat and when he tried to supress it, it came out sounding like gurgle. He couldn't see her, but she had to be blushing by now. She blushed so easily. "No, not married," he said to the elderly Italian ladies. "Dating."

One of the three said, "Dating?" and then from another, "Boyfriend girlfriend?" then, lastly, from the one in the middle, "No, no. No dating. If love, you marry."

"_Si_, marry," agreed the one on the left. "You no want other men looking at her. You must protect her, must beat man who look at her."

At this, he turned to look at Rose. She looked like she'd happily strangle herself with the scarf he'd wrapped around her neck on their way here. "I suppose I now have license to thrash anyone who dare look at you. Elderly Italian women do make the law when it comes to love affairs, you know."

Her cheeks turned pinker and she very quickly put a hand up to her face. That should be enough torture for one day, he decided. Making their excuses, Valentine was able to extract them from the room and the Italian women in less than half a minute. He was headed in the direction of the hiding room, to show her the shelf that hid the secret door, the one that contained old pictures that Anne herself had put up, but Rose quickly headed for the door. He almost didn't have enough time to duck under the beam that materialised before his head as he walked, trailing after her. "Rose, don't you want to see the hiding room?"

"I saw it while you were busy examining Miss Anne's calligraphy." While he was – oh, she meant that he'd taken such a long time reading the manuscripts. Mundane speak was so confusing sometimes. It was never straight to the point. They could never keep anything short and concise. "And," she continued, "I'd rather not run into more Italian women who will tell you to marry me. Or Italian men who would, for all I know, tell you to tear my clothes off and take me right there on the wooden floor."

"Now, there's an idea."

She stopped just long enough to turn around and hit him. He caught the fist swinging towards him in mid-air as easily as though a child half his size was the one delivering it. "_Schatz_, don't. It is pointless." Those words were on the tip of his tongue and he was already half-smiling, but then he saw her face, and he saw her eyes, and he let go of her hand, which proceeded to fall as if it weighed a tonne. Instead of the joking retort he had formed in his mind, he said, "_Schatz_, what is it?" He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger. "Are you upset over what they said? You know it was just a joke, right?"

"It's not that. Any girl would be happy to be mistaken for your wife," she replied, her voice lacking its usual cheer.

"Everyone except the girl standing in front of me, it would seem, whom I happen to love. What is it?" She turned her face away and breathed on a heavy sigh, putting both hands up to her face, all her fingers save for her thumb pressed against her closed eyelids. "Now I know there's something wrong. _Meine __Schöne_?"

Another sigh, this one lighter than the first. She dropped her hands and moved closer towards him. Instinctively, he put his arms around her. It was something of a habit now, holding her. Something he did as if he'd done it for a hundred years now. When she spoke, she sounded tired. "Can I tell you when we get home? I don't want to talk about it here, when I'm supposed to be enjoying my time with you." She looked up and continued to speak, more fervently, "I _want_ to enjoy my time with you. When you're around, it's like nothing in the world could ever get to me. I'm sorry for being such a Sorry Susan…or a Pathetic Polly. Have I ruined your day for you?"

"Never, _liebling._" He smiled at her, the most dazzling smile he could muster. "I don't think I've ever heard of the term 'Pathetic Polly' before."

"I invented it. On the spot. I'm amazing that way." And just like that, their joking mood had returned.

Valentine kissed her lips softly. "Whatever it is, _meine herz_, I can wait. 'And ruined love, when it is built anew, grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater.'"

"What did I tell you about Byron?" she said, waggling her forefinger at him.

"It isn't Byron, but Shakespeare."

Once more, she rolled her eyes at him, almost as if to say, "It's about the same thing." Valentine returned her gesture by smiling, a wide smile that said everything was alright, that they could go about their day in complete normalcy, but there was that niggling thought in his mind, the one he'd pushed back to the furthest crevices of his brain. _What in hell was going on?_

* * *

"_What in the hell is going on?"_

She could read the question all over his face, even as he smiled at her. She could see him, he'd said to her, and it went far beyond the usual seeing. It was like she could see into his soul, know his very person. She leaned into his side when he draped an arm over her shoulder, liking the way she fit against him so well. Nothing was too big or too small. Everything was just right, like she'd been made specifically for him. They were walking down a pavement against traffic. He was taking her to Dam Square, he'd told her, or as he'd called it, _de Dam._ They passed by several alleys, rather like the one she'd been in earlier in the morning, and she gazed fixedly at the feet, counting her steps like a petulant child disobeying her mother. She couldn't look at them. She couldn't look at the alleyway or the little streets made for pedestrians and cyclists and motorcyclists lest she think of it.

_God above, I want to tell him_, she thought to herself. She clasped her hand over her mouth tightly, trying to supress the ugly wail she felt like emitting. She could see his face, Magnus Bane. She could see the eyes – imaginary or not – that looked at her accusingly. "Murderer," they said. "Destroyer," they whispered. She could even hear Magnus, as loudly as if he were beside her, speaking the words she had committed to memory. "What is it you want, Rosalind Sahra Wyatt? What is it you really want? Are you truly the victim here?" And then he'd turned on her with such hateful eyes that she almost jumped out of her skin. "You reel people in with your doubts of your sanity, pounce on their pity, feed on their love the exact same way you're doing with Valentine Morgenstern."

"I'm not…Valentine…I love him. I'm not −"

"How quick you are on your feet, how easy it is for you to deceive. I _know_ you. I know where you come from." She had begun to speak up then as well, to defend herself. What did he know? What did he have to tell her? Why was he speaking to her like she was demon spawn? _She_ was being hunted, not the other way around. There were a thousand and one questions swimming around in her mind, millions of words she had to speak, but then Magnus moved and so blindingly fast and then he was in front of her, his hands slamming down onto the armrests of the chair she was seated in. "Do not lie to me anymore, Rosalind. What do you want?" Desperately, she searched his eyes for something, anything. Some vague sense of pity. Something she could grab onto to make her understand, but she found nothing. She squeezed her eyes shut. Perhaps this was another one of those mind games the raven-haired man often played on her. If she'd just shut her eyes and wish hard enough, she'd be back in the room, Magnus sipping his sparkly drink and she still eyeing the liquid in her own martini glass suspiciously.

She felt him grab a hold of the collar of the leather duster she'd had draped about her shoulders from her encounter with that creature in the alleyway, and then she heard him yell at her. "WHAT DO YOU WANT?"

Rose opened her eyes then and saw his cat eyes glowing, ablaze with anger and his spiky hair standing up in all directions, and then she laughed. It was her voice, but at the same time, it wasn't. She knew it wasn't her who was laughing. It was as if she was trapped inside a prison while someone was taking over her body. And when not-her spoke, she sounded exactly like her and Rose felt herself shiver, though her body made no such response, as the voice travelled up to her ears and slithered in like a snake, cold and smooth. It was as if listening to someone else speak, yet she knew it to be her own voice.

"I will burn down the world, Warlock, and dance on its ashes. I will turn the humans against themselves and the Shadowhunters against the humans. They will bathe in the blood of their brothers. They will hunt down the likes of you like you were dogs. Pretty soon, Magnus Bane, the world will turn on itself and I will bask in the destruction caused by the best of creations and when all that is over, the survivors will pick at the carcasses like hyenas, putting aside their own humanity. Blood will run in the streets like rivers into the sea. The world will burn, Magnus Bane, and you will not stop it."

Inside, she screamed. Inside, she could see an image of the destruction the other her had described. Inside, she sobbed, the sounds she made full of anguish. Imprisoned within her own body, she thought of her aunt and uncle. She'd ruined their lives by coming to live with them. She'd distorted all their plans, forced them to focus on her, to care for and about her. And then there was Francois, who'd been having such a beautiful life before she ran to him like she did, and now she'd disappeared and she'd been so happy that she hadn't given him a second thought. He was probably worried sick right now, putting everything in his life on hold to look for her, waiting for her to come back.

And Valentine – sweet, strong Valentine, so vital and perfect. She was going to ruin everything for him. That glittering future as the beacon of the Nephilim world would be snuffed out and by none other than her, as if extinguishing the light of a candle. She would ruin him. She would take away everything that was him. And then he'd never look at her the way he did now. He'd hate her. Or he'd die.

Her mind formed an image of him, wielding a broadsword, standing atop a pile of scarred corpses – Shadowhunters. He was triumphant. He was alive. But at what price?

Seeing him that way, his crisp white school-shirt blood-stained, the pain in his eyes as he looked at his fallen comrades, the ones he'd slain, she felt something sawing away at her heart. It hurt and she couldn't help but scream, and then she couldn't bring herself to stop screaming. Until her throat was raw and sore, until her voice failed her, she couldn't stop, but she couldn't hear herself.

Then she heard it. Her own voice. Screaming. As if she were being attacked by a pack of wolves. She opened her eyes and saw Magnus, whose eyes no longer held hatred within them, but confusion. "Rosalind?" he asked, his tone careful.

"I'll ruin him," she said, her voice quiet, meant only for her ears. "I'll ruin him." _I have to leave him_. But how could she when she loved him so, when he brought so much happiness into her life?

Out of the corner of her eyes, she could see that everything was slowly beginning to be engulfed in black. Even Magnus Bane, standing right before her, was beginning to fade away, the spikes in his hair melting to liquid. She looked down at her hands. They were melting, too. _Valentine_. That was her last thought before the darkness took her into its arms as well, and as she fell even deeper, teetering on the edge of consciousness and oblivion, she could hear the same voice inside her. Screaming was pointless now. She couldn't get rid of it. It was _inside her_ and she couldn't not listen as it said, "It's alright, Rosie. We all have to be selfish sometimes."

* * *

**A/N: Well, look at that. I've finally started writing again. I know I haven't been on in months, but that's only because I was freaking out over these major exams here in my country and now that it's over, I have all the time in the world. Please don't hate me and leave a review. You know how happy they make me. And now, onto reading the stories of other amazing writers that I have abandoned for so very long.**

**The description of places in Amsterdam are what I remember from when I travelled there in...2008? I will be far more thorough next time and enthral you with details. And if anyone reading this speaks German, I apologise if I used anything in the wrong context. My German's a little rusty.**


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